


Chosen Son

by Morimaitar



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Male Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bookworm Jason Todd, Childhood Trauma, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I hate sad endings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Explicit Sex, Slow Burn, This isn't bleak I promise, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, We're talking real slow, it's a long one folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 168,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/pseuds/Morimaitar
Summary: Jason Todd isn't just another brat on the streets of East End. He's the Black Mask's newest project. After all, if the kid was brave enough to rip the tires off his car, he'll be brave enough to do the impossible.AKA Roman Sionis takes in his own little Robin.





	1. Streets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings ladies and gentlemen and non-binary fellows. This fic will be updated regularly, as will tags and warnings.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: references to child abuse and assault (both non-graphic).

The raw air washed over him, stinging the exposed skin of his face. Jason Todd waited in the shadows of McKinley Street, hood up and eyes down. In the distance, he could hear laughter, the pulse of music, shrieks and screams cut short. A car rumbled down the street ahead of him. Its headlights shone over damp roads, grimy dumpsters, weeds peeking through pavement. And then it was gone, and the night was dark again. 

Jason smiled to himself. Nights like these were ripe for the taking. A good thing too: he hadn’t had a solid job in days. Hunger was scratching at the inside of his throat, a real, fierce hunger that left him feeling hollow. All he needed was an idiot with a couple of twenties in his wallet, and he’d be set for the week.

First lesson of the streets: _ play the hand you’re dealt _. 

“Shitty hand,” Jason mumbled. Empty pockets, a dead junkie for a mother, an incarcerated loser for a father. In the books he stole from the library (second lesson: _ education is liberation _) he read stories of parents who fought heaven and earth for their children, who sang them lullabies and cooked them breakfast, who never shouted or screamed or did jobs for wicked men— 

The scars on his shoulder blades began to itch. _ Don’t think about them_. _ Stop_. There was no use in wishing for a childhood he would never have. Jason had his game, and that was all that mattered now. 

It only took a few months after his mother’s overdose to learn the craft. Jason knew which marks were easy and which would leave him bruised—or worse. He knew how much he could lift before the security guards or bouncers or whatever began to notice. He knew which street corners were safe, and which belonged to the men who would put a bullet in his brain, not caring that he was a) thirteen years-old, and b) fairly innocuous, as far as thieves go. 

At least, he hoped to be.

Not that anyone would really notice if Jason started knifing people. His turf consisted of the six-ish blocks in the East End, adjacent to McKinley Street and not for fram Scurvy City and Hell’s Crucible. AKA everything around and including Crime _ Fucking _ Alley. It was a sorry little kingdom in Gotham, and he was its sorry little prince. His subjects were thieves, addicts, whores, pimps, murderers, all sorts of crowds united by the deathly grip of poverty.

_ Well. _ Jason breathed sharply in place of a laugh. _ “Subjects” might be a bit of a stretch. _

The sound of footsteps turned his attention to the street. Two figures were approaching, wrapped in scarves and thick parkas. Though the light was dim, Jason could see the tension in their shoulders, the way they stepped hesitantly over plastic bags and gawked at jars of piss. _ Bingo _. Residents of the East End were never so frightened of shadows. But these people, these people wouldn’t know not to carry cash or rings or watches. These people wouldn’t know not to trust a kid like him. 

As the figures came closer, Jason saw that one of them was a woman, middle aged. _ Double Bingo _. Those types ate his act like they were starved.

Still hidden in the shadows, Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of fake blood. He already had a bruise from the hotshot thug who claimed Jason disrespected him, but bruises don’t come off on fingers. Blood is unavoidable. He squeezed a few drops above his lip, then a few more along the arch of his eyebrow. Tepid liquid dripped down his face and came to a stop along the curve of his jaw. 

It was almost ridiculous, how simple it was.

Inhale, exhale. Show time. 

“HELP!” Jason screamed, emerging from the shadows. He fell to his knees and clutched his face. “Oh god, oh god. Help!”

The people in front of him jumped but did not run away. When he screamed again, the man approached him slowly, then ushered for the woman to follow. 

“What happened?” the man asked softly. 

Feigning shock, Jason shook his head, tears spilling down his bloody cheeks. _ Hyperventilate. Stare at the pavement. Quiver with fear _. 

“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh, baby.” 

Jason knew what they saw: an injured child, frightened and trembling like a lost lamb. Maybe they had children of their own, and were projecting little Johnny’s face over his.

“The big man—he’s—” Jason gasped for air. 

The woman crouched down to examine his face, though Jason knew she wouldn’t be able to describe him to the police. The closest street lamp was ten meters away, not to mention the fact that he was bloodied and filthy and his hair, jet black and shaggy, shaded his eyes from view. 

“Hank,” she said. “He’s bleeding.”

“Blood?” Jason muttered. 

The man, Hank, offered his hand. “Here.” 

_ One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi. Look up. Grab hand shyly. Fall into his chest. Look shocked. _

“Whoa there,” Hank said. 

“Don’t hurt me!” Jason backed away from the man, his arms held over his face. “Don’t!”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” the woman replied. She extended a gloved hand, beckoning him like a lost puppy. Her concern made him sick. 

“No! No! Get away!” 

“Wait—”

But Jason was already gone. He ran down the street, dodging shopping carts, trash, sticky puddles of god-knows-what. The wind whipped at his clothes. It stung his face. Then, when he was sure the couple could no longer see him, he turned sharply into Crime Alley.

The couple didn’t follow him. Figures. Everybody wanted to be a hero but no one wanted to work for it. It would be easier for the two of them to go home and forget.

_ Until they realize what they’re missing _, Jason thought, pulling a pair of wallets from his pocket. He counted at least one twenty before pinpricks dug into the back of his neck. 

Someone was watching.

Stuffing the wallets back into his jeans, he turned around, ready to tear past whoever had followed him into the alley. But there was no one. Nothing.

_ Disappear _, the streets told him. 

Heart pounding in his ears, Jason took off in a sprint before someone bigger and meaner could take from him what he had earned. 

(Third lesson: _ you can never be too careful _)

As he climbed the fire escape of a condemned apartment building, Jason wondered if his home even qualified as a residence, much less a home. He lived on the third floor, where he could no longer smell the booze and shit of the streets, where he had a clean view of the clinic and the dark-haired woman who patched up both the innocent and the guilty. His neighbors were termites and asbestos, and his furniture was about as luxurious. Bags and blankets and a few things that loosely fit the definition of chairs. A few flashlights to see. A crate to store clothes. 

But hey. Anything beat sleeping on a trash heap in Crime Alley. 

Jason grabbed a rag from the bathroom sink and, wetting it with a splash from a water bottle, wiped the fake blood off his face. It stained his skin pink where it had dried, but he knew from experience it wouldn’t last. Besides, he could dress up as Mother-Fucking Wonder Woman and no one would bat an eye. If it didn’t directly concern them, the residents of East End didn’t give a fuck. 

“Assholes,” he snapped at no one in particular. 

There wasn’t a lot of cash in the wallets. Fifty-eight bucks between them, plus a coupon for office supplies and a department store gift card. One drivers license that showed him the woman's name was Mollie. How old-fashioned of her.

He used to regret stealing from strangers. The first time he ever lifted a wallet, he had half a mind to run back and plea for forgiveness. After all, the rich never strayed into East End. Those who came, they were only slightly higher up the totem pole. Poor but not impoverished. Struggling, but not homeless. 

It made him remember something his father once told him when he was shit-faced and rambling. “There’s no real decency out there, Jase,” he said. “It’s you against the world, and you gotta do whatever it takes to keep you alive.” 

Once he was really, truly on his own, Jason found that the old man was right. It killed him to admit it, but there was truth in the bastard’s words. His only options were to steal or die. An ugly game, living on the streets.

Besides, if they didn’t want to be robbed, they shouldn’t have come to the East End. Play with fire, get burned. 

Draping himself over the pile of fabric he called a couch, Jason dug around for his book before settling into a comfortable position. He had read _ Peter Pan _twice already, but the people at the library had set up a new security system and it was getting harder to sneak books out the door. Most of the time he would settle for staying within the library walls. He’d take an early morning walk to the Gotham Public Library and spend an entire day on one of the comfortable pleather chairs, a pile of books by his side. But he had to account for nights, too. 

Squatting in an apartment without electricity could be kind of boring. 

_ Peter Pan _ was good enough. Jason liked the idea of lost boys who didn’t need a mother or a father, not really. The Lost Boys never went hungry and never had to break a window to steal a wallet; a radio; a watch. Their biggest worry was pirates, and even then the pirates were hardly evil compared to the men Jason met in alleyways and on the docks. The pirates of Neverland only wanted Peter _ dead _, and hardly gave a shit about the Lost Boys. They didn’t beat them, whip them, snuff out cigarettes on their skin. They never grabbed them with greasy hands and mocked their cries for help— 

Lost Boys. Ha! They were hardly lost, compared to him. 

Sometimes Jason would look out the cracked, water-stained window of his apartment and watch the people of East End filter in and out of view. Thieves, addicts, whores, pimps, murderers: all of them bound by their vices to a mockery of the biorhythm. Thieves become addicts and whores, who are indebted to the pimps, who become murderers. And then, when they are all dead or imprisoned, their children take their places. 

(Fourth lesson: _ you will either go to prison or go to hell _ ) 

Jason wouldn’t end up like them. He promised himself that he wouldn’t be like his mother, dead on a bathroom floor with a needle in his arm and bile on his lips. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be like his father, stealing and henching and dealing until he’s shoved into a cruiser with cuffed hands and a target on his back. 

He was going to make it out. He had to. 

Holding his book above his head, Jason flipped through the pages of _ Peter Pan _ , trying to work up the energy to keep reading. _ Education is liberation _ , but reading the same, quasi-racist book three nights in a row was getting kind of boring. Besides, it _ was _a book for children. Despite his age and height and appearance, Jason hardly qualified for that category anymore. He’d have to “borrow” something else. Like Tolkien or Morrison or Faulkner. That’d be a trip. 

He sat up, discarding the book to his side. The busted-up radio clock he stole from a Chevy told him that it was a little after two. He would have to wait until morning to eat—at this hour, the more violent criminals were beginning to haunt the streets. No matter how painful the ache in his gut, instant noodles and granola bars weren’t worth a bullet in the brain.

Better get some sleep, then. 

Jason turned on the radio to drown the silence of his apartment. He couldn’t stand sleeping without it. 

“_ — _ _ suspect that the Batman is responsible for the apprehension of seven masked men believed to be _ _ — _”

_ Batman. _Jason scoffed. Now there was a joke. How was the caped crusader protecting people like Jason? All Batman and the GCPD did was prolong the inevitable. Two to three years later, and the criminals they locked up would be back on the streets, raining terror down on the rats of East End. Hell, even the fucking Joker and Bane and Two-Face made it out eventually, angrier and more brutal than before. And people like Jason were the ones who suffered for it. 

He switched the channel. Bitterness and sleep don’t mix well. 

Soft jazz poured through the crackling speaker, spilling over Jason as he settled into a comfortable position on the floor. He breathed in deeply, noting how the scent of mold and rot hardly bothered him anymore. Gunshots echoed from somewhere off the street. A siren _ whooped _ after them. 

But it only took him a few minutes to fall asleep. 

♟♟♟

Jason brought twenty bucks with him to the library and stuffed the rest in the hole behind the sink in his apartment. On the way he bought the cheapest, largest burger he could find, and washed it down with sixteen ounces of protein shake. The shake was gritty and didn’t taste at all like strawberries, but to him it was heaven. 

Hunger abated, he walked slowly along the streets of Gotham, kicking the rocks in his path. The morning was gray and sluggish, hungover after whatever hell had occurred the night before. Jason liked mornings. Mornings were safe, mostly. 

Still, he kept both a knife and a tire iron in his backpack. Of course, the iron was mostly for ripping off tires, but it made for a good weapon when needed. 

He hoped he wouldn’t need it any time soon. 

His agenda for the day was simple: take shower, eat, get new book, get rid of old book, lift a new pair of shoes and maybe some jeans. Maybe he’d rip off some car parts if he had time. Then he’d get to use the iron. 

As for the shower, he had walked right into the gym by the Regal and dropped into the locker rooms before anyone even realized he shouldn’t be there. The trick was confidence. Tunnel vision. When he acted like he belonged, he faded into the background, anonymous. 

(Fifth lesson: _ never stand out _) 

Shower, check. Food, check. Time to move on. 

He flipped his hood over his head so that passerby wouldn’t see his face. The fake blood was gone, but the bruise remained, a fat, purple splotch that stretched over the pale skin of his jaw. After two days, it had faded a bit in color, but it would still attract the attention of people who thought they could help him. 

_ Help me my ass, _ Jason thought bitterly. All they’d do is ship him off to foster care and pat themselves on the back for their good deed. Like the Gotham foster care system wasn’t full of people like his parents. Like he wouldn’t end up right back where he started from. 

The only person who could help Jason was Jason. 

When he got to the library, he slipped the copy of _ Peter Pan _back into the return bin, then grabbed every book that piqued his interest. He read until his eyes felt heavy, until his fingers could barely grip the pages between them. How much sleep did he get? Four, five hours? Not enough, that’s for sure. 

Most of the time, he tried not to think about the things that he was missing. So what if he didn’t have a bed or a mattress or a pillow? 

_ My back hurts _ , he thought. _ That’s what. _

Fuck. He really _ was _ too old for his age. Jason leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. Closing his eyes, he pictured the bed he would have once he made it out of East End. Memory foam, two, no, _ three _ whole pillows, blankets so soft they would practically melt in the heat of his skin— 

He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until a voice disturbed him. 

“Hello?”

Talk about an adrenaline rush. His nerve seized; his heart raced. Jason looked up, expecting to see someone with a weapon and cold, steely eyes. But it was only a librarian: a tall, older man with square glasses. The nametag on his lanyard showed that his name was Marc. 

“Can I help you with anything?” Marc asked.

“No,” he said.

“Do you want me to reshelve any of your books?” 

Jason handed him the Baldwin novel he had finished, and the mystery novel he didn’t care for. “Thanks. Bye,” he said, itching to slink away from the man’s gaze. 

Marc tucked the books under his arm. “I’ve seen you here a lot. Where do you live?” 

“Culver street, you know, in Burnley. The house with the purple flowers out front. My mom hates them, but my dad says that they’ll attract bees and that bees are good for the garden out back. ‘Course, the garden’s all dried up now, except for the fucking tomatoes.” 

(Sixth lesson: _ the crazier the lie, the better the lie _)

“Oh.” Marc looked as if he had intruded in some sacred space. “I see. What happened to your face?” 

He almost said, _ some drunk asshole punched me and left me in a heap behind a strip joint _. But somehow, Jason didn’t think that would fly with stupid, nosy Marc. 

“I can’t catch baseballs for shit.” 

If Marc didn’t believe him, he hid it well. But Jason knew that he did. The lie was more comfortable than the truth.

“That’s too bad,” Marc said. “Baseball is a fun game. You take care of yourself.” 

Jason gave the man a curt nod and watched him disappear around a bookshelf. Once he was sure that the librarian would not return, Jason slipped a copy of _ Fahrenheit 451 _into his backpack, and walked toward the entrance. He stopped by the DVD section to grab a few more popular movies, then slipped those in his bag as well. DVDs, he learned, are good for five bucks and easy to pawn. 

As he walked through the doors, he casually passed his bag behind the pillars that held the magnetic sensors. Success. No alarms raised.

The streets of Gotham were past dark, shrouded by a thick blanket of fog that not even moonlight could break through. _ Shit _. He must have been sleeping for a while. Really puts a damper on his plans. 

Looking down, Jason studied his shoes. Tears split the fabric, and the soles had worn away after months of running away from marks, pimps, gangsters. Not to mention the fact that they were way too tight. In a mere three months he had grown almost an inch, and his clothes were feeling it.

He checked his watch. Eight o’clock. 

“God damn it,” he hissed. The later it got, the more anxious stores became. Security got tighter. Clerks more suspicious. It’s not that he was afraid of being caught—not that he would, anyway, he was quick as a hawk—but why work harder when he could work smarter?

_ Fuck me fuck me fuck me _. 

He was three blocks into East End when he heard the police cruiser. The muscles in his legs tensed up. It was an instinctual, involuntary reaction. No matter when or where, policemen were not his friends. They looked at him and saw a tramp, a punk, someone who would grow up to be like the boys they nail for drug slinging and homicide. Someone like his father. 

Once, during the early days on his own, Jason made the mistake of reporting someone who had pointed a gun at an old man and threatened to shoot. It seemed like the logical thing at the time. The police take away the bad guys. The police are on his side. 

Except when he approached them, they pinned them to the cruiser and told him he was under arrest for dealing, even though he had never touched drugs except to remove them from his mother’s unconscious hands. When he wrenched himself from their grasp, he ran and ran and threw up behind a dumpster. 

Jason could feel the cruiser approaching. Headlights shone over the wet asphalt, stirring anger and unease inside his chest. He ached to strip the vehicle of its tires, smash the windows, steal whatever he could find inside. 

_ Don’t look. Just keep walking. Don’t make it worse. _

The cruiser passed, as he knew deep down it would. Like would ever Marc call the police over a stolen Bradbury novel and some DVDs. Still, he ached to smash the headlights. 

“Fuck you,” he muttered, tugging on the strings of his hood. 

Continuing his walk, he imagined his feet in looser shoes. A pleasant fantasy, but it didn’t last more than five minutes. 

“Hey kid!” 

He turned. A large man lingered on the other side of the road, his fat forefinger pointed at Jason’s face. 

Jason ignored him. Not in the mood. 

“Hey! Fucker! I’m talking to you!”

“Sorry,” Jason called. “I don’t know any ‘fucker.’ You got the wrong guy.”

“What’d you say, bitch?” As the man crossed the street, Jason could smell grease and booze. “You talking back to me?”

“Talking down to you, actually.” 

“Oh yeah?” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. “How about now?” 

“I don’t have any money,” Jason said flatly.

(Seventh lesson: _ fear digs a deeper grave _)

“Oh yeah? Empty your pockets.”

He did as the man commanded. “Told you,” he said, showing him a piece of gum and seventy cents’ change. “You want these? You can have them.”

The man motioned with the tip of his knife. “The bag.”

Jason stared at the man. His grip was loose, his vision scattered. No way was this guy good enough to catch him, let alone knife him.

“I don’t have any money,” he said again.

“I don’t believe you.

This was a waste of his time. 

_ Just run _ , the streets said. _ He won’t follow. _

Jason turned on his heels and obeyed without second thought. Over the rush of the wind, he could hear the man screaming obscenities. His backpack thudded against his spine. He ran faster. 

At some point he passed the cruiser, lying dormant at the side of the road. _ No no no no no _ , he begged. _ Please no. _

His prayer went unanswered. With a shriek or the sirens, the red and blue lit up the night.

The PA system broke through the fog. “_Stop _ ,” it said. “ _ Go to the side of the road. _”

Like hell he would. Jason forced his legs to keep moving. He ducked down one street, crossed another. _ Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t stop. _

The roar of an engine filled his head. He can taste the exhaust in the air, feel the friction of the tires against the street. 

“_Halt! _”

Left, right. Duck. Climb. Jump. 

Jason fell from the height of the chain-link fence, tearing open a knee and taking the skin off his palms. But the cruiser was trapped on the other side. 

He could not rest. It was best to keep moving, before the cops get out and brandish their guns. 

In an instant he was gone. 

When he could hear nothing but the sound of his own gasping, he let himself catch his breath. Stepping into the shadows between two buildings, he bent over his knees and panted. Blood dripped down the front of his shin. His heart threatened to beat out of his throat. 

_ In, two three four. Out, two three four. _ After a moment, he straightened and looked around. He _ was _ in Crime Alley; of that he was sure. Before this moment, he thought that he knew every inch of his turf, every discarded needle, every broken window. But now...he didn’t recognize a thing. It was as if he had stumbled into some hidden pocket of Gotham. 

As he searched for some recognizable landmark, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. 

“Come out,” he growled, keeping his voice deep and dangerous. 

No reply.

He took a step back into darkness. Another. No one appeared. He was truly alone. 

Sighing with relief, Jason flexed the muscles in his hands. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing the dark strands out of his eyes, and tried to quell the pounding in his chest. _ In, two three four. Out, two three four. _

That’s when he noticed the car. 

It was sleek and angular, much too clean to have been parked long. The body of the car was black, so black that Jason didn’t blame himself for not noticing it against the deep, dark shadows of the alley. A car like this...he had never seen a car like this before. The tires alone would be worth a grand. Two, even. And if he could cut the plates and catalytic converter…

_ Fuck. _ He was going to this, wasn’t he? He _ had _to do this. 

Looking around, Jason approached the car slowly. He placed a hand over the hood. Still warm. Whoever parked here, they wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.

He smiled to himself. _ Idiot _. It was probably some shithead loaded john, looking for a pleasure among the lowest of the low. And now the dumbass would be trapped here, alone and exposed and afraid. Well. Mr. John wanted to experience the East End life, didn’t he? 

It was going to be a good night after all.

Reaching into his backpack, Jason retrieved the jack and tire iron he stored in the second-largest pocket. He made quick work of the lug nuts and hauled the front left tire to the side of the alley. It was almost a game, at this point. How fast can he rip off tires? His record was eleven minutes, though he was shorter and weaker then. Now that he was older, he could probably do it in nine. 

His mistake was this: he lost track of his surroundings. Jason felt so at ease around cars, so loose, that he missed the hiss of breath. The tremble of footsteps. The _ clicking _of a cocking gun. It wasn’t until he felt the blunt pressure against the back of his head that he came back to reality.

(Eighth lesson: _ never lose track of your surroundings _)

“What’s this?” a voice hissed in his ear. It was deep and wet, filled with a poison that froze the blood in his veins. “Tell me kid, were you dropped as a baby or were you born stupid?”

“I—” 

The Voice pressed the gun harder against his head. “Shut up.” 

Jason’s grip around the tire iron tightened until his knuckles were white as paper. Could he swing before the Voice fired? Surely he wouldn’t be expecting it, which would give Jason the advantage of surprise, but guns were unpredictable, impatient. 

There was only one way to find out. 

He threw himself to the side and lashed out, hitting the Voice behind the knee. A bullet tore through the night, exploding in his ears. Jason clamped his hands over his head but it was too late. The sound bounced around his head, ringing and buzzing painfully. And the Voice—where was the Voice?

Tight arms wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his chest. “You little shit!” the Voice growled. 

Jason kicked. He threw his head into the Voice’s jaw. He screamed. 

“Get off me! Get off me! Fuck!” 

The Voice squeezed harder. 

The air flew from Jason’s lungs. Something in him began to crack. _ No! _ he tried to scream. _ Please! I’m just a kid! _ He started kicking again, his feet thumping weakly against the Voice’s shins. Once, twice... 

His vision began to slip away. _ Oh god, oh god, oh god _, he begged, until his words became a prayer.

He did not want to die.

“Sears! Release the boy.” 

At once the pressure lessened. Jason fell to his knees, gulping down air. 

The Voice, a middle-aged man with a full beard, limped forward, favoring the leg that Jason had not struck. He wore a black suit jacket and tie, as did the men who had appeared before them. Most of them, at least. The one in front wore a white, pin-striped suit and an intricate, skull-like mask over his face. 

Whoever he was, Jason had him to thank for his life. 

“You were right about him, sir,” the Voice said. “He—”

“I have eyes, Sears.” 

“Yes, sir.”

The masked man stepped toward them, tilting his head like a wolf inspecting its prey. As he came closer, Jason realized that the seizing in his chest was fear. He had never felt so vulnerable, not when his father was beating him, not when his mother lay dead on the bathroom floor, not when cops and drunk men accosted him on the street.

“Do you know who I am?” the masked man asked.

_ Fear digs a deeper grave _. 

“Judging by your getup,” Jason replied, “I’m guessing you’re some nobody gangster. Trying to get attention from the big man himself with your fancy costume.”

There was a crack, and his face lit up in white, blinding pain. Jason yelped. Sears had struck him. 

But the masked man was laughing. “You’re a foolish one to be so brave in the face of death. Brave, but foolish.”

Jason touched a hand to his nose. It came back red. 

“Sears here,” the masked man continued, gesturing to the Voice, “he _ never _misses. Either you’re one lucky bastard, or you’re worth more than you realize.”

“According to the world, I’m not worth shit.” 

“Oh, I think you’re worth a lot more than that.” 

Jason scrambled away from his extended hand. “I don’t do that. I’m not—” 

The masked man laughed again. “Please. If I wanted to sell you, I wouldn’t waste time on chatter,” he said. “Someone like me, I could use someone like you. Consider yourself an..._ investment _.” 

“I’m not a criminal.”

“The facts say otherwise.”

“I’m not a criminal _ like you _.”

“Who says I am? You were damaging my property. Sears responded as any loyal man would. I can’t help that he’s a little...passionate.” 

Jason opened his mouth but could not find the words to say.

The masked man offered his hand again. “Come with me, and I’ll make you the hero of Gotham.”

“I don’t want your help.”

‘Very well.” The masked man motioned to another one of his men, who retrieved his gun and aimed it between Jason’s eyes. “Leave your mark on history or on the pavement. The choice is yours.” 

As he stared down the barrel of the gun, Jason wondered if he would be better off dead. No more hunger, no more fear. The world would be rid of yet another brat it never wanted. 

Or he could live. Get out of East End. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time to see a little cat bare his teeth.


	2. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello, and welcome to another chapter. After this, there will be one more chapter with young!Jason, then we'll have a nice little time jump. 
> 
> A note that will be obvious in 0.2 seconds: this version of Black Mask is most similar to the one from Batman: Bad Blood, AKA a normal-looking guy whose mask hasn't yet burned onto his face. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: child abuse, vague mentions of assault, and rich people.

A thousand feet above the city of Gotham, Jason lingered in the doorway of the masked man’s penthouse, petrified by the wealth before him. The walls were dark stone; the floors wooden and shiny as mirrors. Golden details shone from nearly every corner of the entryway: a statue here, a lamp there. A crystal lamp hung from the two-story ceiling like a stalactite, and beneath his feet there lay a plush white rug. The rug appeared no different than the ones Jason saw in catalogs, but he suspected its worth was far greater than anything he could imagine.

As he took in his surroundings, Jason caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Blood was dripping down the front of his face. Though the existing bruise hardly noticeable anymore, new ones were forming below his eyes. So his nose had broken. Figures. 

(_You don’t belong here _ , the voices said. _ You make this place imperfect._)

It was then he noticed that the masked man was studying him. Though Jason could see nothing but his eyes, he appeared amused, perhaps intrigued.

Jason scowled. “What do you want?” he snapped. 

“You look hungry,” the masked man said. His voice seemed artificially smooth, as though he were hiding the poison within. 

“I’m fine.” 

It happened quickly. Jason fell to his knees, yelping in surprise and pain as a deep ache settled in the back of his right leg. Sears stood above him, smirking. 

Something flared up behind the masked man’s eyes. “Do you know what hunger makes you?” he growled. 

Jason shook his head, glaring. 

“It makes you weak.”

“Okay.”

“_Yes, sir. _”

“Yes, sir. _ Damn _.” 

Another smack, this type to his already damaged nose. White-hot pain filled his vision. Jason groaned and clutched his face between his hands. 

“See,” the masked man began, straightening the collar of his suit jacket, “I’m only trying to take care of you. You’re _ my _ little project, after all.” 

Jason cheeks flushed. _ Fuck you _, he wanted to say. But he held his tongue. Jason could tell from the man’s body language that he would not hesitate to have him beaten again. 

“You need a new punching bag or something?” Jason asked, his voice muffled by the fingers around his nose. 

“Please. Someone like me doesn’t need to beat up children to feel superior.” 

“Tell that to your cronies. Fuck!” Fresh blood poured between his fingers. “God damn it. Fuck!”

The masked man made a show of walking over and examining his face. As if someone like him would care that Jason was in pain. “Just look what you made me do,” he said. “Broken. We’ll have to have that patched up. Sears, fetch the good doctor, will you?”

Jason jerked away from his hands and stumbled backward, leaving streaks of red across the pristine rug beneath him. _ Shit _.

The masked man stared at the rug. His hands twitched with rage, clearly ready to tear into Jason until the whole floor was uniform in color. 

But nothing came.

“Done hitting me?” Jason hissed. 

Laughing, the masked man bent down and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the blood from Jason’s face, so gently it almost made him sick. 

“Let me help you,” the man said, straightening. “I’ll have Berner fetch you something to eat. It would be best if you came along.”

Jason knew threat when he heard one. He climbed to his feet and followed him deeper into the penthouse, hand still clamped over his bleeding nose. 

“Don’t act so injured,” the masked man said. “That little act of yours won’t work on me.”

_ Little act...? _ Jason frowned.

The masked man continued. “My men tell me that you have sharp eyes, and quick hands. They say you run as if death itself were on your heels. Sit.” He motioned to a leather barstool tucked under a marble counter island.

He sat, watching the masked man as he summoned yet another person to his side. Judging by appearance, this one seemed to be a servant. The man whispered something to her, and she disappeared through a doorway. When she returned a few minutes later, she carried a plate of something pink and green. It smelled of fish and citrus and, despite himself, Jason’s mouth began to water. 

“Salmon salad,” the masked man said. “Eat.” 

He accepted the dish and poked at it cautiously, keenly aware of the man’s eyes on his face. When he could stand the smell no longer, he took a bite. _ Slowly, slowly _. He could not look desperate. 

The masked man watched him the entire time, silent.

After a while, Sears returned with a man Jason assumed to be the medic. He was an older man, unshaven, with a wild look about him. He wore neither scrubs or a lab coat, but carried a hefty first-aid kit under his arm. 

“Sir?” Sears asked. 

“Let the boy finish, Sears. Your impatience is disgraceful.” 

With great effort, Jason set his fork down. “I’m done,” he said. 

“Did I say you were finished?” 

“No.”

“No, _ sir. _”

Jason said nothing. 

“Need I remind you,” the man sneered, leaning over the marble counter, “what happens to little boys who don’t follow directions?” 

_ Fuck you _. Jason once again picked up his fork and began stabbing at the pink fish. “No, sir,” he muttered. 

“Good boy.” 

When the man was satisfied with his effort, he turned Jason over to the medic, who wasted no time in shoving a metal rod up Jason’s nose. 

“Hold still,” he said, and yanked the rod over. There was a snap, followed by a sharp, shooting pain. Jason screamed. He could not help it. 

The doctor grinned. “Cartilage is set,” he said, pulling out a roll of medical tape. “Hands down, please. We don’t want to do this again now, do we?”

Reluctantly, Jason removed his shaking hands from his face. He stood still as stone as the medic layered strips of tape over the bridge of his nose. The sharpness of the pain lessened with time, but the ache remained. 

When he was finished, the medic gave his boss a satisfied look. “Good as new.” 

“His hands next,” the masked man said. “And the knee, too.” 

Jason looked down. His palms were raw; his jeans torn and bloodied. He had almost forgotten about his scraped limbs. How long had it been since he ran from those cops? One, two hours? It felt like a lifetime ago.

Perhaps it was. 

The medic wrapped gauze tightly around his hands, tying the flimsy material in a knot over his knuckles. With medical scissors he cut Jason’s pants above the knee and poured an antiseptic solution over the scrape. The liquid foamed and stung, but the pain was nothing compared to the sharp, burning sensation in the middle of his face.

As the medic placed a bandage over his knee, Jason struggled to keep his eyes from watering. The masked man must have noticed his effort. An unmistakable smugness crept over his eyes. 

“Leave us,” he told the others. At once they obeyed. 

Sighing, the man poured himself a glass of amber liquid and took a seat on the stool next to Jason. 

“You did well,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Jason muttered under his breath. 

“That better have been a ‘thank you, sir.’” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Hmm.” The masked stared at the frost gathering on the outside of his glass. The silence between them was taut and restless. 

“You knew I would try to take your tires, didn’t you?” Jason asked. “It was a setup.”

“Very good.”

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Me?” The masked man laughed. “The person you were was beneath me. _ I’d _never waste my time watching someone like that.” 

“The person I was?” 

The masked man swirled the amber liquid—liquor, judging by the pungent smell—around in his glass. Jason wondered if he was planning on taking a drink with his mask on. 

“You’re under my protection now,” the man said. 

_ What a fucking joke. _ “You’ve got a messed-up definition of protection.”

“And who’s to say you don’t have a messed-up definition of safety? Tell me,” the man said, “did you consider your..._ residence _ to be safe? How many rats were shot below your window, hmm?”

“I—”

The masked man cut him off. “In my business, _ we _ are the ones who hire the exterminators.” 

His business... Jason had a sinking feeling that his business was something far worse than theft. The man claimed that he did not want to sell him, but what other options were there? Jason knew nothing of deals or negotiations, nothing of economics or accounting or whatever hell businesses were fronting for. The only things he knew of drugs he knew from secondhand experience, watching his mother with her needles and her pills. What use would this man have for a ratty little thief like him? 

When he could stand it no longer, Jason spoke softly. 

“What do you want from me?”

“Behave,” the man said, “and you’ll find out.” 

“Do you even know my name?” 

The man laughed, making Jason blush furiously. He should have known that the man could care less about that. Boys like Jason were anonymous roaches to crush under his heel. 

“It’s Jason,” Jason said. “My name is Jason Todd.”

“I don’t care.”

“What’s yours, then?”

“Like all privileges, my name is something you’ll have to earn. Until then...” The masked man lifted the bottom of his mask and took a long sip of liquor. For the first time, Jason could see the lower half of his face. It was not scarred or monstrous as he expected. Rather, it was altogether _ normal _. From what Jason could tell, he was white, clean-shaven, and likely in his early thirties. 

“Until then what?”

“Think of me as your patron.”

“Uh huh. Do patrons normally beat people up, or are you some special kind I haven’t heard of?” 

“I’m surprised you’ve heard of patrons at all,” the masked man mused. 

Righteous anger exploded in him, hot and fierce as a wildfire. So what if he was a street rat? That didn’t make him a dumb kid who couldn’t tell the difference between Crichton and Pratchett.

The man held up a hand before Jason could speak. “Watch yourself,” he said, as if he had anticipated the string of obscenities about to leave Jason’s lips. “You have a very pretty mouth. I’d hate to bruise it.”

_ Pretty boy _. 

“Don’t call me that, _ sir _,” Jason snapped. 

“I’ll call you whatever I like. You’re my little investment.”

“I’m a _ person _.” 

There was a piercing _ crack _ as the masked man slammed his drink on the counter. Liquor sloshed over the edge, pooling on the dark marble. “You want to be treated like a person?” he hissed. “Act like one. You think people will buy your hotshot bit? In the real world, men like me don’t waste thoughts on fleas like you. Understand?” 

Like a caged rabbit, Jason could do nothing but stare, wide-eyed, his heart banging against his ribs. He had never encountered such venom before: not in books, not on the radio, not in the men who accosted him on the streets. This was more than aggression. This was corruption. This was _ power _.

And it chilled him to the bone. 

“Yes, sir,” Jason replied. 

It was as if the outburst had never occurred. The masked man’s posture relaxed; his eyes lightened. He picked up his drink and took another sip. 

“You’re learning. Good.”

Jason swallowed his qualms. “What can I say? I’m a good student.” 

The masked man clicked his tongue and reached out, dragging a long, pale finger along the curve of Jason’s cheek. “I’d hope so,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t make us break something else of yours, now, would you?” 

Despite the needles pricking his skin, Jason forced himself not to pull away from the man’s touch. “I won’t,” he said. Then, hastily: “Sir.”

Chuckling, the masked man let go of him and rose to his feet. “Get some rest,” he said. “And wash that blood off your face.”

_ In that order? _Jason almost said, but bit his tongue. It would be fucking stupid of him to make a snide remark now. The idea of sleep swirled pleasantly around his mind, weighing down his eyelids and limbs in equal measure. He was not normally so exhausted at this hour—usually he would be up past two or three in the morning—but then again nothing was normal about this night. Not one thing. 

As he walked through rooms of glass and gold and stone, he wondered if anything would feel normal again. 

♟♟♟

“Sir?”

Jason stirred. Sleep clung to the corners of his mind, weighing him down into the mattress. 

“Sir?”

He opened his eyes. A woman stood over him, dressed in a fitted black shirt and slacks, her fingers poised to shake him conscious. 

Bolting upright, Jason scrambled backwards. “Who—”

_ The car. The masked man. Angry fists _. Everything came flooding back into him, but the memories did little to comfort the pounding of his heart. So it had not been a dream.

“The Sir would like you up now,” the woman said. “There are clothes for you in the closet.”

Jason looked towards the glass wall along the left-hand side of the room. A red sky greeted him; the sun had not yet risen. 

“What time is it?”

“Five-thirty, Sir.”

“My name is Jason.”

“Yes, Sir. You should be getting up now. Miss Berner will have breakfast ready in just a few minutes.” 

Sighing, Jason swung his legs over the edge of his bed, watching as the woman bent down to pick up his clothes from the floor and left. Something akin to anxiousness settled in his stomach. _ You shouldn’t do that _ , he wanted to say. Those were _ his clothes _. What if he didn’t get them back? 

But protestation would be useless. The woman was gone, and Jason suspected her orders came from someone higher up the food chain, anyway. 

He slipped on a pair of stiff slacks and a black tee, the closest things he could find to the clothes he was used to. Everything was too soft, almost slippery, grazing his skin like butterfly wings.

“Ugh,” he muttered, examining his appearance in the mirror. Other than his bruised face and the bandages across his nose, he looked nothing at all like the person he was yesterday. He looked like a kid whose mother dropped him off at school with a lunchbox and a kiss. He looked like he played video games and owned a golden retriever named Sam or Max or Daisy.

Disgusting. Jason wanted his hoodie back.

When he sat down for breakfast at a long glass dining table, he noticed there was only one place setting prepared. Jason knew he should be relieved, he _ wanted _to be relieved, and yet he couldn’t shake the apprehension swirling around his chest. Someone was fucking with him. 

“Where is he?” he asked the woman he recognized as Berner. 

“Who?”

“You know. _ Him _. The man with the..." Jason motioned vaguely to his face.

“The Sir is away on business. He will be back.” Berner replied, setting down a plate of eggs, toast, and tomatoes. A rich, savory smell drifted up alongside tendrils of steam. Jason’s mouth began to water. 

He forced himself not to shovel everything into his mouth. “What would happen if he doesn’t come back? Hypothetically.”

“The Sir always comes back.”

_ Jesus Christ _. It was like pulling teeth with these guys. 

Jason picked up a piece of toast, trying to look nonchalant about it. “Do _ you _ know his name?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

The woman’s face was blank. Unreadable. Without another word, she turned around and walked back into the kitchen.

“Fuck it,” Jason muttered, biting into the toast. He ate greedily, looking around the dining room, taking in the lavish decorations, the sleek chairs, the drops of glass dripping from the chandelier overhead. Heat pulsed from the long, modern fireplace behind the table, and light streamed through the glass-paneled walls that opened up into the city. The sun had risen. 

No fucking way this was a dream. Jason’s mind could never have produced such a picture of wealth.

It took everything he had not to lick the plate clean. Instinct told him that he should: you don’t waste things on the streets, not when meals are an uncertainty and starvation looms over you. But he wasn’t on the streets. Not anymore.

Despite everything, Jason allowed himself a tiny smile. 

“Good. You’re finished.”

Jason’s head snapped around. Sears’ cold gaze met his. The man was larger than he remembered, dwarfing his teenage frame like the shadow of a skyscraper.

“Come with me,” Sears said.

“Why should—_ fuck! _” Jason yelped as rough hands grabbed him by the collar and yanked him from the chair. His feet scrambled to steady themselves on the floor. 

“Do _ not _ make me repeat myself.”

“Were you bullied or something?” Jason asked, straightening himself. “_ Jesus _.”

Sears huffed as he started walking out of the dining room. Jason followed close behind, hesitant to take his eyes off the man. There was a slight irregularity to his walk, an off-beat rhythm. It was as if... 

“How’s the leg?” Jason asked. 

Sears whipped around, face twisted in anger. In a second his fingers were digging into Jason’s jaw. “Don’t test your luck, boy,” he sneered, squeezing. 

His mind jumped to the men on the street, the way they’d lick their lips and try to pet him. _Where you going, pretty boy? You gonna to squirm for me, huh?_ _Run all you’d like, there ain’t no Bat here to save you_...

Jason struggled in his grip. He hissed. He pushed. He clawed at the man’s broad arms, spitting like a cat. But Sears held fast. Then Jason’s teeth found the soft webbing of his thumb, and he bit down.

“Son of a bitch!” Sears yanked his hand away. His gray eyes burned into Jason’s, brimming with fury and indignation. Even in the dim light of the hallway it was clear that red welts were forming along the skin. 

“Go on, hit me,” Jason spat. “Do it.”

Sears clenched his fists until all the color left his knuckles. He stared at Jason for a moment longer, then all the tension left his hands. 

“I don’t know what the Boss sees in you,” he said, a smug look settling over him. “You’re nothing but a waste of space.”

_ Like I’ve never heard that before _. 

Jason rubbed his jaw, moving his fingers in circles to erase the subtle ache. “Funny,” he replied, “I think I’m fucking perfect.”

Sears muttered something beneath his breath, then turned around and continued walking. He didn’t say another word for the entirety of the trip to the lower level, not even as he opened a pair of glass doors and pushed Jason inside. 

His type was always the same. Nothing more than a set of muscles on a leash. 

The room he had brought him to was no different from the rest of the large, ostentatious spaces of the penthouse. Smooth chairs, lavish rugs, somber, abstract paintings. Although, the number of bookcases was a surprise. As were the volumes that filled them. 

With a start, Jason realized he had been brought to a library. A fucking _ private library _.

Tentatively, he made his way over to one of the shelves and ran his fingers along the spines of the texts. _ The Man in the High Castle. Crime and Punishment _ . _ The Count of Monte Crisco. Rising Sun _ . The list continued, books upon books upon books, until Jason could hardly comprehend that one man could own such a collection. Novels, poetry, essays, plays, things he had never even heard of, and it was all in one room. And he was too. 

It was a full five minutes before he even noticed the note placed carefully in the center of a desk. Jason groaned internally. Of course there had to be _ something _. 

Sighing, he picked up the note, and read: 

_ Someone will meet you here shortly. Behave, and you will be taken care of. I want to see you succeed. Do not disappoint me. _

There was no addressee, but knew it was for him. Even if it weren’t for the context, he had the feeling that the masked man knew every inch of the penthouse, had every one of its occupants wrapped around his gloved fingers. There’s no way that the man would allow a stray note in such a conspicuous place.

_ Do not disappoint me. _

Jason frowned at the last line. A multitude of questions burned in his brain, spilling over each other as they fought for dominance, _ what? who? why? how? the fuck? _

He could run away. The elevator to the ground floor was only a floor above him. Sears was gone, and Jason was probably faster than the giant anyway; he could duck under his outstretched hands and be gone before he knew it. And the medic and Berner and everyone else, they were even less of a match for him. He’d be on a bus and out of the Diamond District, out of Gotham, out of everywhere, forever. There would be no one left to piss off; no one left to disappoint. 

And yet...

For the first time in his life, Jason had not gone to bed hungry. He was clean. His clothes were clean. And someone wanted him, not in a cruel, wanton way like the people of East End, but a in a lenient, almost-magnanimous way. Maybe it didn’t matter that the masked man was clearly into some shady crap. It’s not like Jason had a clean slate, either.

He tucked the note back in his pocket and sat at the desk, waiting for whoever was supposed to come through the doors. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair until he could see the books behind him. Those beautiful, beautiful books. Ha! How could he believe for a second that he could give this up?

Besides, the masked man probably had a plan in place, in case he tried to leave. Drones, or some shit. There’s no way he’d let his little _ investment _go so easily. 

_ Well _ , Jason thought, resting his feet on the desk. _ Maybe his little investment won’t go after all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a fun fact: I broke my sister's nose once---accidentally, of course. Bonus points to whoever can guess how I did it.
> 
> Second, a question: shorter chapters more often, or longer chapters less often? I know this one was posted quickly, but I had a lot already written when I posted the first chapter. Let me know what you think!


	3. Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEADS UP: This work will have a title change because I hate this one lol. Also, please mind the updated tags and warnings. 
> 
> This is the last chapter featuring young!Jason. After this, the narrative will skip forward five years. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: homophobic language, violence, and euthanasia.

The first few days took some getting used to. Hell, the first _ months _took some getting used to. 

First of all, there was the wealth. The masked man was swimming in it. Marble walls, heated floors, crystal chandeliers. Jason’s bed was fitted with black satin sheets and thick, heavy blankets. The fridge was restocked every morning by the help, bent old women who called Jason “sir” and never looked him in the eye, not even when he greeted them kindly. And the view...it left him helpless. Roman’s penthouse was in the center of the Diamond District, surrounded by parks, rivers, high rises that gleamed and sparkled like a sky full of stars.

For the first time in his life, Jason wanted for nothing. It was a disquieting pleasure. To be privy to this much, when others would steal or sell themselves to survive...

And then there was the routine. Jason was used to waking and sleeping as he pleased, was used to filling his time with whatever the world threw at him. But the masked man, the masked man was draconian. 

His expectations were almost too much, the masked man’s. Or, as Jason took to calling him in his head, Mr. Mask. Mask for short. 

Mask had him waking before the sun and going to bed long after it disappeared below the horizon. Jason was expected to eat full meals and wear ironed clothes. Seven hours a day he worked with tudors, studying math, sciences, languages, criminology, computers, and literature. And each day the deluge of information nearly wiped him out. As soon as he found sturdy ground in one subject, another would appear. Chemistry, physics, composition, speech, Latin. Fucking _ Latin! _

Then there was his physical education. When he was not working his mind, he was working his body. For hours on end Jason trained: running, lifting, boxing, until his knuckles were bruised and his body ached. Every night he went to bed battered and broken like a tin can dragged behind a car. 

His only comfort came in the solitude of meals. No tutors, no trainers. Not even Mask joined him at the table. Hell, he hardly saw the man anymore. For days on end, weeks even, Jason would go without laying eyes on his skeletal visage or smelling his expensive cologne.

It troubled him. How valuable could Jason be if Mask never cared to speak to him? His world had turned upside-down in fifteen minutes. Who was to say it could not right itself again? 

_ Do not disappoint me. _

At least his routine he could count on. The lessons and exercises and bruises, again and again and—

“Again,” Cade said. 

Jason breathed deeply. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow into his eyes, stinging. He blinked them away. 

Cade’s eyes narrowed. “Are you deaf, boy?” 

“Are you, old man?”

_ Smack _. A dull, familiar pain spread across the back of his head. It was the third time that day that Cade had struck him, yet none of the blows had been damaging. Their function was to remind, not to punish.

Gritting his teeth, Jason took an athletic stance.

Cade smirked. Though his face was weathered with age, he moved and spoke like a man in his prime. His shoulders were broad, his arms cut with muscle. No wonder Mask had him in charge of Jason’s daily workouts.

The old man pulled out his stopwatch. “Three,” he said, “two, one. Begin.” 

Jason dropped into a plank position and began a set of push-ups. _ One, two. Breathe in, breathe out. _ The muscles of his upper body— _ pectorals _ , he remembered, and _ triceps _—strained with each controlled movement. 

_ Eight, nine, ten _. 

He sprang to his feet and threw his fist toward the target pad on the wall. Jab, cross, jab cross. Then it was back to the floor. 

_ Breathe in, breathe out _.

Jab, hook, jab, hook.

Push-ups. Forty jabs.

Push-ups. Squat and hook. 

Push-ups. Jab and cross. 

On his last set of push-ups, Jason stalled at four. His shoulders trembled; his wrists struggled to bear the weight of his body.

“Four,” hissed Cade. “Come on, you little shit.”

_ Fuck you _. Jason lowered himself to the floor.

Five. Six. Seven. A hiss of air escaped Jason’s lips. Sweat dripped freely into his eyes, blurring his vision. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Climbing to his feet, Jason panted. It was difficult to keep his back straight. Like a chorus of sinners, every muscle in his body begged for absolution. _ Lie down, just for a moment _... 

Cade examined him with cold blue eyes. “You’re weak,” he said. 

“I’m—” 

Cade backhanded him across the face. White lights exploded up before his eyes. Blood pooled around his tongue. Jason stumbled backwards, resisting the urge to cup a hand over his face. _ Don’t let them know you’re hurt... _

Gritting his teeth, Jason looked around the training gym, searching for a white suit, eyes that regard him as a wolf regards a distant traveller. But there was no one. He should have known; Mask would never spend his time observing a failure like Jason. 

_ The person you were was beneath me. I’d never waste my time watching someone like that. _

“You were saying, bitch?” Cade asked. 

Jason turned back to his trainer, an infuriated smile on his lips. _ Fuck you fuck you fuck you! _ He wanted to tear his hair out and scream. 

No. That was Old Jason talking. New Jason didn’t feel pain. New Jason excelled at running and boxing and tumbling over mats. 

He straightened his back and lifted his chin to look Cade in the eyes. 

“I could do this all day,” he said. 

“Good.” Cade nodded, smirking. “Take your stance.”

_ Alright _. Jason pulled his mouthpiece from his pocket and slipped it over his upper teeth. He shifted his right leg back, relaxed his shoulders, bent his knees slightly. Hands up, elbows in. 

Cade threw the first punch. A quick jab. Jason bobbed to the left, and returned the favor. The old man blocked him and countered with a hook toward Jason’s temple. Slip. Uppercut. Block. Right hook. Jab. His arms ached from the warm-up; sweat dripped freely from his limbs and forehead. Even if he could land a blow he knew it would do little damage.

Block. Right cross. The old man’s left fist landed on his temple. Jason recovered quickly, shutting out the pain. 

“Come on, you little shit,” Cade said between combos. “I’m hardly breaking a sweat.” 

Bob. Jab. Cross. Knuckles drove into his kidneys. Jason pulled away, hissing between clenched teeth.

“You fight like a fairy.” 

“Shut up!” Jason snarled. 

Another blow to his kidneys. He gasped, covering his torso to prevent further blows. 

“Make me, shithead.”

His face burned. Everything he threw, the old man shrugged off. Jab. Cross. Hook. Cross. _ Fuck! _

Cade laughed. “No wonder you never learned to fight. I bet you loved sucking cock behind dumpsters.” 

His face burned. With a snarl, Jason launched himself forward, sending them both crashing to the floor. He punched, once, twice, not stopping to see if any of his strikes met their target. He didn’t care. 

In the blink of an eye he was on his back and his hip was on fire. It happened so quickly he hardly had time to register it before Cade’s arm was pressed over his throat. 

“You broke the rules,” he said, an ugly smile plastered over his face.

“Fuck. You.”

“Good thing the Boss Man wasn’t here to see that shit.” Cade stood and brushed the lint from his clothes. He motioned for Jason to stand. “Get up and take a stance.”

_ Again _, Jason thought bitterly. 

Later, after a cold shower had washed the sweat from his skin, Jason stared at himself in the mirror. In the months since his arrival at Mask’s penthouse, he had grown taller and more sturdy. His nose had healed without any odd bumps and his skin had deepened in color after long runs around Cape May. Even his hair, which had been the same mess for thirteen long years, had been shaped into something acceptable by Mask’s standards.

But those things were hardly a point of interest. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jason muttered, examining a bruise along the outside of his hip. It was yet another to add to his collection. Many were large, marbled blemishes, like nebulas spread across his skin. And then there were the smaller ones: scarlet marks from rough fingers, contusions from a tumble on the training mat. The one along his hip belonged with the former. It stretched over the expanse of his skin, ugly purple and streaked like a sunset. At least it was not alone. There were small bruises over his face and torso, and a cut above his eyebrow that tore open every time he frowned. 

What a mess. 

Sighing, Jason tugged on a tee shirt and a pair of sweats. If he was truly injured, the medic, Lionel, would have shown up by now. It was a bruise; nothing more. Jason would not let a fucking _ bruise _ bother him, not when all the world had it worse. 

All across Gotham, people were being beaten, murdered, and blown-up by and freaks like Batman were doing nothing to stop it. He had seen the kind of damage vigilantes did to their city, the decimated buildings and the crying, bleeding innocents on the sidelines. People like Batman and Supes and that fish guy, they only cared about bombs and derailed trains and giant beams of light. They never cared about the civilians their so-called justice tore apart in its wake.

Taking a deep breath of cool air, Jason walked back into the room he was still hesitant to call his own. Plush carpets warmed his feet, sleek lamps lit the soft gray walls, and large, blooming orchids decorated every surface. The entire room was as large as his apartment back in Crime Alley, and the artwork alone was worth more than his father’s annual salary. Well. The salary he earned before he went to prison, that is. 

_ Fuck. _ If dear old dad could see him now. 

He looked at his bed, freshly made each day by the woman who had first woken him months before—Bianca, he had learned. It would be wise of him to sleep off his aches and anxieties. Tomorrow would only bring more of them. He should get in bed, curl into a ball, and dream of proper takedowns and knee strikes and deadlifts. 

But then again, Jason had failed. Many times. First, when he could not do ten_ fucking _ pushups, and then again when he lost his cool during the sparring match. He let Cade beat him into the floor over and over, and by the end, he could hardly hold his arms up to soften the blows. That could not happen again. It _ would not _happen again. 

Jason slipped on a pair of shoes and walked into the hallway, stretching his arms as he headed toward the elevator. He no longer cared about the cameras hidden behind the walls; it was just another part of his daily routine. Every hour of every day, someone was watching, waiting for him to fuck up one time too many.

Except not Mask. Mask didn’t seem to care either way. And that was almost worse.

“Where are _ you _ going?” 

Jason looked up. Lionel stood before him, holding his medical bag under his arm. Without his lab coat, he was a bottle away from looking like a drunk: thin and scruffy with dark circles under his eyes.

“Midnight snack,” Jason said. 

“Liar.” The medic smiled. “Kitchen’s that way, and it’s not even midnight yet.”

“I told you mine. Tell me yours.” 

Lionel held up the bag. “Boss asked me to restock his supply cabinet. Obviously.”

“What is it? Morphine? Adderall? Codeine?”

“Nothing you’ll ever see. Want something for the limp?”

“I’m not limping.”

“Sure, kid,” Lionel said. “Sure.”

Jason buried his frustration beneath his skin. “I’m gonna go now,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs in the gym, if anyone asks.”

The medic winked. “It won’t cost you anything. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Like hell he would. Jason pushed passed him and got into the elevator, smashing the button for the thirty-seventh floor. Mask, he had found, owned not just the penthouse, but several of the floors below. Not that he had ever seen anything beyond the gym and the penthouse, nor did he have plans to do so. He had simply latched onto the information that passed over him. 

In the gym, he stood before the training dummy, stretching his arms. He cracked his neck. He rubbed the muscles on the back of his calves.

_ You don’t have to do this _ , Old Jason said. _ You can go back to bed _.

New Jason hissed, _ shut up _.

_ You’re wasting a shower. _

_ This isn’t Crime Alley anymore. I can take another. _

_ But— _

“Fuck off,” Jason muttered. He took his fighting stance and began. 

Front kick. Roundhouse. Knee. Elbow. The crack of skin against wood echoed throughout the gym. _ One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. _

Damn, his limbs hurt. He could picture himself creaking like the wooden dummy, his joints rattling in their sockets with each strike. _ This must be what it’s like to be old _, he thought. Still, he pressed on. 

Jab. Cross. Kick. 

Jason took a deep, controlled breath. He needed more motivation. 

When he concentrated, he pictured Cade’s face in front of him, his cold blue eyes, his angry sneer. Jason drove his elbow into his trainer’s nose. 

_ That’s it? _ Cade laughed. _ Come on, you piece of shit _. 

Another strike. Two, three more. His heart was beginning to thrash inside his chest.

_ Faggot. You weak fucking faggot. _

A growl slipped past Jason’s lips. He tore into the dummy, landing kicks, punches, combos, every strike in his repertoire. _ One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. _

Why was it so hard? It shouldn’t have been so hard! Jason _ Fucking _Todd knows how to hit. 

_ No wonder you never learned to fight. I bet you loved sucking cock behind dumpsters. _

“_ Fuck! _” With every ounce of energy he had left, Jason drove his fist into the center of the dummy. It crashed to the floor, sending shockwaves up his weary legs. He followed suit, dropping to his knees and panting, his head hanging limply. Sluggishly. 

After he caught his breath, he pushed himself back to his feet, running his fingers through his hair. He looked down at the dummy, lying over the floor like dirty clothing. 

The old man didn’t have _ anything _on him. 

Jason walked over to the water station and grabbed a bottle, gulping it down until his lungs were begging for air. He leaned against the counter to catch his breath. In front of him, his reflection stared back.

New Jason smiled.

He took his water over to the other side of the gym, where glass-panels were all that lay between him and the city of Gotham. People couldn’t be seen from this height, he learned, not at this hour. And cars were practically invisible, nothing more than red and white lights moving in patterns down below. Jason wondered if anyone could see him. If they raised their eyes to the sky, could they see a dark smudge against fluorescent lights all the way up here, at the height of Gotham? 

“Enjoying the view?” someone asked. 

Jason whipped around. Mask stood behind him, leaning casually against a pillar as he swirled a glass of alcohol in his hand. 

“In the summer you can see the Iceberg Lounge light up the boulevard,” he continued, raising the glass to his exposed lips. “The place is a bit trendy for me, but I have an eye for beauty.” 

“Where have you been?” Jason asked. 

Mask clicked his tongue. “Your intrusiveness speaks poorly of you,” he said. “But if you must know, I had business to attend to.”

Jason nodded curtly, pretending that he did not want Mask to forgive him for the transgression. He shouldn’t have cared about what the creep thought of him—approval, shmapproval. And yet a spark of worry flickered in his chest, instructing him not to ask another question, not to look any worse than he already did.

Mask looked him over. “Do I not give you enough to do in class?” 

“What?”

He motioned to Jason and then to the dummy. 

“I was practicing. For tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t be down here all alone in your state. Someone could hurt you.”

At once Jason tried to stand tall, raising his chin to look Mask in the eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“Says the boy who was nearly killed over a set of tires. Come here.” 

“Why?” He found himself stepping back, only to be stopped by glass. There was nowhere left to go.

“I want to look at your face. You’re bleeding.” 

He raised a hand to his eyebrow. The cut had opened again, and was weeping softly. 

“I ordered you to come here,” Mask said. “Do not make me repeat myself.” 

Jason obeyed. Nervousness settled in his lungs as the man held his face softly, his fingers kissing the skin. He smelled of whiskey and a deep, musky cologne that reminded Jason of leather and moss. 

“My my,” Mask hummed. “And you’re limping. What has Cade done to you?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. A strong little boy like you, you’re not afraid of pain.”

Jason couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. He stood, back straight and hands stiff at his sides, until Mask let go of him. Cool air blew over his face, chilling the places the man had touched.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we done, _ sir _?”

Mask kept his icy gaze fixed on his face. “_ Lupus non timet canem latrantem _.” 

“_Lupus non mordet lupum _,” Jason snapped. 

At his words, the man laughed. “Very clever. I see you’ve been studying.”

“Yeah, well, I try.”

“Clearly.” Mask finished off what was left in his glass. His eyes flicker toward Jason’s legs, arms, chest. “How much can you lift now?” 

“Depends.” 

“What’s your circuit time, then?” 

“Five forty.” 

“Hmm. You are doing well.”

_ Was that...? _ Stunned, Jason felt himself scrambling for words. He settled on silence, not wanting to create a problem where there should be none. 

“Come,” Mask said, motioning for Jason to follow him over to the water station. Once there, he reached into a cabinet and pulled out a first aid kid. “This will only take a moment.”

Jason didn’t even breathe as the man placed a bandage over his eyebrow and smoothed down the adhesive with a gentle tap of the finger. 

“I’d like to see you work, tomorrow,” Mask said. “In the meantime, I expect you to get some rest. Understand?”

Jason swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” 

Mask looked at him, nodded once, and left. Jason could do nothing but watch him disappear beyond the doors, his blood rushing in his ears. 

_ You are doing well _.

_ You are doing well _.

_ You are doing well _.

♟♟♟

All day Mask observed Jason at his studies, a tall, dark figure like a shadow in his peripherals. His silence was almost a punishment in of itself. Jason wanted to tear his hair out and scream: _ what are you thinking? _Give him criticisms, give him praise. He hungered for someone to acknowledge the work he had done! 

When it came time for his training, Jason was relieved to finally have a more concrete way to measure his success. Either he would end up on the floor, or he wouldn’t. Nothing invisible there.

He did not falter in his drills. And when Cade had him sparring, he was a whirlwind, punching and dodging and kicking until the time was up and he was still standing. 

_ Really? _ he thought, watching the lack of expression behind Mask’s eyes. He just went toe to toe with a man twice his size and _ didn’t _end up on his ass. That must have been worth a nod, at least.

Nothing. Mask cleared his throat and crossed his hands over his chest. “Let’s see you run,” he said, motioning towards the treadmills.

Jason ran faster than he ever had before. He ran until his heart threatened to burst from his chest and his lungs could hardly take the time to pull in air. When he hit the three-mile mark and slowed, his legs shook like jelly. 

Even Cade was impressed. Jason could tell by the muted anger in his eyes. When he did well, there was no opportunity for insult. 

“Not bad,” Mask said, noting the time. “I’m sure it will only improve as you age.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Jason forced out, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

Cade tried his best not to scowl. “His arms were stiff.”

“I didn’t see such a flaw,” Mask said. “But if you want to take responsibility for your student’s form, by all means, continue.” 

Cade’s mouth clamped shut, his jaw twitching.

“As I thought.” Mask turned to Jason. “Shower and eat. You will meet me at the elevator in an hour. Understand?”

Jason nodded, blinking as sweat dripped into his eyes. _ Is that really all he has to say? _he thought, then cursed himself for being so needy. What was he, a fucking puppy? 

Once he was back in his room, he let a calm, hard demeanor wash over him. His shower went by in a blur, as did dinner. In no time at all, he was sitting next to Mask in a moving vehicle, his hair still damp from the shower. 

The last time he was in one of Mask’s cars, he was too afraid to look up from his hands. This time, he watched Mask’s face, studied the way he lifted his mask every so slightly to take another sip of whisky. It was almost hypnotic. Almost.

Mask noticed him staring. “Do you drink?” he asked.

Jason had, but only out of curiosity. Hell, he hardly qualified as someone who has had alcohol, much less a _ drinker _. 

“No.” 

“Hmm. Would you like some?” Mask extends the glass towards him. “It will calm your nerves.”

“I’m not nervous,” Jason replied, but he took the glass anyway. _ Don’t! _Old Jason cried, and New Jason scoffed in disgust. What a fucking quitter.

The amber liquid felt cool, then hot and prickly as it burned the back of his throat. His gums tingled. He felt like his face had become an ember, soft and red and warm. 

Mask smiled and retrieved the drink from his hand. “Not bad. Most people recoil at their first sip.”

“Yeah?” Jason huffed and turned his gaze to look out the car window. Gotham hurried past them, stopping and starting and slowing. “I’m not like most people.”

The man said nothing in response, humming softly as he took another sip of liquor. Jason waited for...he didn’t know what he was waiting for. Affirmation? Insult? After a moment, he leaned his shoulder against the door and watched the buildings pass by overhead. Traffic lights changed like the seasons: green, yellow, red. There weren’t a lot of cars out at this deep hour of the night, but every so often one would pass by, washing the interior of Mask’s car in a calm white light.

Right turn. Left turn. And then the engine turned off. 

He sat up, expecting some glittering high-rise, a yacht, some stone mansion with wide windows and columns and vine-covered walls. But it was none of those things. It was East End. 

The free clinic loomed over them, only a few of its windows lit by ugly fluorescents. The rest of the building was dark and desolate, abandoned by pleasant society. Nothing at all like what he had become accustomed to.

“Wait,” he began, looking over the clinic’s crumbling infrastructure, “why are we—you’re not—”

Mask wouldn’t be bringing him back, right? He wouldn’t, not after—

The door pulled away from him as Sears opened it from the other side. Jason stumbled out, taking in the streets he had not seen in months. The sickly,familiar smell of East End shook him to his core. He had forgotten the stench of illness. Of rot.

“Come,” Mask ordered. Hands in the pockets of his suit, he strode toward the building, Jason scrambling at his heels. 

The inside was cleaner than he remembered, and brighter too, though the tang of blood hung heavy in the air. A person in a sweater was sobbing quietly in the waiting room. Another sat low in a chair, glassy-eyed and fixated on his own fingers. Mask nodded at the woman at the front desk, who shrunk in her chair and buzzed them into the hallway. 

“You’ve been here before?” asked Mask. 

Jason nodded, thinking of the one he couldn’t remember, when he was a newborn and addicted his mother’s drugs. Heh. Hardly a day old, and already tethered to fate.

“Loads of times,” he replied.

“That makes two of us. Come.” 

The elevator doors opened with a chime. Then Mask pressed the button for the 5th floor, and they were closed again. Silence drifted between them, pressing down on Jason’s shoulders. A lone question pricked at his lips. _ Where are we going? _

But he wouldn’t ask it. He couldn’t. 

Another chime. They stepped out into a white hallway that looked no different from the one they had just left. Tile floors. White walls. The beeping of a monitor, the buzz of light bulbs. 

Mask turned to look down at him. “It would be best for you to say nothing,” he said. “The doctor will ask you questions. You will remain silent. Understand?”

Jason cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” The man straightened his jacket and headed down the hall. But before they could turn into a room, an older Latina woman stopped them in their tracks. 

She had more gray hair than Jason remembered, but those large glasses and messy bun remained unchanged. Doctor Leslie Thompkins, angel of East End. 

“You can’t go in there,” she said. 

“Please, continue to obstruct our path,” Mask replied coolly. 

The doctor looked to him, then to Jason, and her eyes widened. “What are you doing with _ him _?”

Jason didn’t know if she is talking to him or to Mask. Either way, he kept his mouth shut and stared straight ahead. A green curtain blocked his view into the room, but he could tell from the amount of equipment that it was no mere flu patient on the other side.

“We would like to visit a patient. I advise you to let us in.”

_ Come on _ , Jason thought. _ Just step aside. Please _. 

“Hey,” Dr. Thompkins said. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“He’s fine, Doctor.”

“I would like to hear it from him, if that’s alright.”

Jason looked to Mask. Even if his face was visible, Jason knew he would not be able to read it. His eyes were impassive, his brow relaxed.

Silence.

_ Come on. Please. _

Dr. Thompkins let out a resigned sigh, then removed herself from their trajectory. “Don’t touch anything,” she said. 

Mask dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Go on,” he said, when the doctor had left their line of sight. 

Hesitantly, Jason stepped into the room. The curtain stood between him and the occupant but could not block the smell of death. 

Then it was pulled back, and Jason nearly vomited. 

There was a man lying in the bed of room 513. Or rather, what was left of a man. Oxygen was fed into his nose; his jaw was perpetually open around what looks like a feeding tube. It was clear from the position of his limbs that at least two had been broken, but the damage there paled in comparison to the state of his face. Broken jaw. Both eyes, bruised and swollen. Stitches ran from his temple to the middle of his shaven scalp, though they could not quell the steady ooze of fluid over his skin. 

Jason swallowed his nausea and forced his eyes away from the man. _ Oh god, _ he thought. _ Oh fuck. _

As if Mask could read his thoughts, he smiled grimly. “It would be a mercy to kill him,” he said. “The greater cruelty is letting him live.” 

The man’s words shocked him into attention. Jason gaped openly, disquiet clawing its way up his throat. “You—you didn’t,” he stammered. “Did you?” 

Mask shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Me? Oh no. I didn’t do this. Jeffrey was one of my men.” He ran a hand along the plastic barriers of the bed, his gaze fixed on the man’s face.

“Then who?”

“Take a guess, boy. Who really runs Gotham from the shadows? Whose twisted sense of justice never lets him kill?”

The answer came easily. “Batman.” 

Mask nodded once, and again Jason found himself staring into the man’s devastated face. He knew Batman was a fraud, but he had always believed that his sins stemmed from apathy and vanity, an unwillingness to make a difference unless it polished his ego. This...this was beyond cruelty.

“Why?” he blurted out.

Mask shrugged. “Bats and I don’t get along,” he said, drawing a finger along the man’s bloody, swollen cheeks. “Hateful, isn’t it? To do such a thing to a man who was doing nothing but trying to make a living.” 

Jason said nothing. He could only stare at the scene before him, listening to the rhythmic hiss of the oxygen machine, the sigh of air leaving the man’s lungs. _ Hiss _ . _ Sigh _ . _ Hiss _ . _ Sigh _.

“Why show me this?” he asked, after a moment. 

Mask’s eyes burned with anger as he spoke. “So you know who the real enemy is.” 

“Right,” whispered Jason. What would it be like to cling to life in such a state? To be trapped in a beaten, bloody shell? No way was the man going to come back. Not from this. 

Something small was placed in his hands. When he looked down, he saw that there was a glass vial in his hands. He turned it over to see the label. _ Potassium chloride _. 

Mask looked down at him. “You know how to use a needle,” he said. It was not a question.

“What is this?” 

“A mercy.” 

The air fled his lungs. Jason felt his mouth go dry as his eyes flickered from the vial to the man. Mask’s words echoed in his mind. 

_ You are doing well. _

“I can’t,” he said. “I...I _ can’t. _”

It happened so quickly: the smack of flesh on flesh, the sharp sting in his cheeks. Mask had slapped him. _ Slapped _him, like Jason was a child in the throes of a tantrum. He couldn’t even raise a hand to his face. He just stood there, stunned, gripping the vial until his knuckles were white as paper.

“Disobey a direct order again,” Mask hissed, voice brimming with rage, “And I’ll make sure the needle goes in _ your _ arm. Do you understand me?”

Jason nodded.

“I said, _ do you understand me? _”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Mask straightened himself and gestured toward a set of counters by the bed. “You will find hypodermic needles in the second drawer. Yes, that one.”

Jason held the needle in his hand. The last time he had seen one of these, his mother was an empty shell on the bathroom floor. Heralds of death, every one of them. 

Before he could doubt himself, he stuck it into the vial and began to withdraw the chemical. 

“All of it,” Mask ordered.

He inhaled. Exhaled. The needle was full; there must have been 75 milligrams at least. Mask wasn’t taking any chances. 

_ Of course he isn’t _ , Jason told himself. _ The man’s suffered enough. _

Slowly, he pulled the man’s good arm from beneath the sheets. The skin was clammy and yellow, the veins weak. But Jason knew how to find them. He turned the arm over to see the crook of his elbow. There was a tattoo there, a woman with beads in her hand. Santa Maria. A ripe vein ran beneath her veil.

_ The man’s suffered enough _. 

Inhale, exhale. 

Jason stuck the needle into the man’s arm, pressing down on the plunger until he could go no further. Then the needle was out. It was done. Blood rushed in his ears; he could no longer hear himself think.

“What now?” he whispered. 

Mask’s hand settled on his shoulder. “It will take a few moments,” he said, squeezing him gently. “You did well.”

_ The man’s suffered enough _.

Illness gripped him. It wasn’t the knee-jerk nausea of before, but rather a low, rotten emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He struggled to keep each breath steady. 

The heart-rate monitor began to beep irregularly. Fast, slow, fast, slow, slower, slowest. Flatline. 

“We should go,” Mask said softly. “The good doctor will be here any minute, and I’d hate for our conversation to go awry.”

Jason said nothing. There was nothing he could say. The only thing he could do was follow Mask, out of the room, into the elevators, and back into the lobby. 

Sears was waiting for them at the car. The man watched Jason like a hawk as he slid inside the vehicle and shut the door. For a moment, Jason was alone. He allowed himself a shaky sigh before the other door was opened, and he forced a blank face over his own.

The engine rumbled to life, and they were back on the road. The clinic disappeared behind them. Room 113 disappeared behind them.

Mask looked at him. “Who do we blame for this?” he asked. 

_ Me _ , Old Jason wanted to say. But the more Jason thought about it, the less he found it to be true. It was not _ him _ that beat the man into a broken version of himself. It was not _ him _ that refused to put him out of his misery. It was not _ him _.

At once, anger replaced the fear that had settled in his gut. “The Batman,” Jason replied, voice tense. “He did this.”

“Would you stop him, if you could?”

Jason nodded. 

“It will not be easy. You will have to hurt people. Can you do that?” 

_ Could I? _

_ You already have, _ New Jason said, _ and you’re still here. A single life could save hundreds, you know. _

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Kill a killer; kill death. 

“I’m not afraid,” Jason said, and it was true. He _ wasn’t _. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Mask’s eyes sparkled. He leaned back in his seat, looking at Jason with a strange but not unkind expression. Then, he spoke:

“Your name is Jason, yes? Jason Todd?”

“Yes, sir.”

In a smooth motion, Mask removed the skeletal visage from his face, and smiled. 

“Nice to meet you, Jason,” the man said. “My name is Roman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my obsession with working out. I am a total gym rat. 
> 
> Let me know if there's anything in particular you would like to see in the fic! I have a general outline, but am open to suggestions, cameos, Easter eggs, etc. :)
> 
> Lupus non timet canem latrantem = A wolf is not afraid of a barking dog.  
Lupus non mordet lupum = A wolf does not bite a wolf.


	4. Older

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A time skip! Finally! 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter include:** graphic violence and non-explicit sex

A lot can happen in seven years. 

You can gain ten inches and a hundred pounds of muscle.

You can adapt to the world around you. Fit in where once you stood out like blood on cotton.

You can discover some things about yourself, then wish you hadn’t. 

You can start drinking—for real this time; not at all like that fearful teenage experimentation. And you can start taking drugs, but only speed and molly, and only when you’re bored. You decide to take them by mouth. None of that intravenous shit. No needles for you.

You can also learn.

You can learn to speak Italian and German and Russian. You can learn how to make bombs and where to place them. You can learn which bones to break, which organs to pierce. You can learn to shoot a gun, and where to aim to make it hurt, where to aim to kill. You can learn how to slice through muscle and tendon with or without damaging any major arteries—your choice.

He chose the former, mostly. It was like Roman had shown him that night in the clinic. Killing is a mercy. Only the worst of the worst, rapists and traffickers and murderers, are the ones who should suffer.

Jason peered through the scope of his rifle, watching the cross settle over a man in grey ten yards below. He was barking orders at the footsoldiers shuffling crates from one of the hundreds of shipping containers at the docks. Every so often he’d take a long drag from a cigarette, and the embers would light his face up red. 

The man was some type of wannabe mobster, a toady who thought he was important because he ran jobs for the Big Bads across the city. Exactly the type of man that Batman would refuse to end. If Bats had his way, this guy would be rotting in prison until his deep pockets reached some guard or judge or lawyer, and then he’d be back on the street, killing and raping and dealing again. 

Well. If the caped crusader didn’t beat him to a pulp, that is.

Jason inhaled. Exhaled. Cold air, sticky with fog and saltwater, tousled his hair. So stereotypical that this type would do a job at night, on the docks. Too bad the man wasn’t wearing a fedora and smoking cuban cigars. Maybe he was self-aware enough to resist the temptation. 

Probably not. He drove a Bentley, after all. 

A few grunts gathered around the man and started gesturing. Jason could imagine exactly what they were saying: _ all loaded up, Boss. _ or _ we’re in the clear _ or _ no capes sighted, sir _. God, it made him sick. The sooner he got back to Roman, the better.

_ They have something we need _ , Roman had told him. _ I have it on good authority that Dent paid fifteen million for its safe transfer to the Society. You’ll know it when you see it. Do not fail me. _

As if Jason would dare. For seven years he sat pretty, learned all the tricks, retrieved every stick that Roman had thrown. These types of missions, he could pull them off in his sleep. He was the best damn lieutenant Roman would ever have. 

Inhale, exhale. Boss Man was moving toward the shipping containers, stepping carefully around the smaller crates in his path. Some grunt of his dropped a bag of weapons on one of them. Wrong move. Boss man whipped around, pulled something from his coat, and—

The _ ping _of a muffled shot rose in the air. Had Jason not become accustomed to the sound, he would have thought it to be a figment of his imagination. But it was not. The grunt collapsed on the docks, blood pooling beneath his limp body. 

_ Interesting _. Jason turned his scope to the crate that the dead man had disturbed. Though it was small, he was able to make out an orange label. Explosives, class 1.1A. Acetone peroxide, also known as TATP, also known as TNT’s little brother. 

“Great,” he muttered. There went his plan to just shoot Boss Man. The dumb guns would fire everywhere and blow themselves up, most likely taking Jason with them. Not exactly how he wanted the evening to end. 

At least now he had a reason to kill them all. Innocent men don’t trade in explosives. 

Except maybe the cargo was not all explosives. Now Boss Man was standing by the edge of a container, reaching into a crate that looked different from the others. The warning labels were too shiny, a slightly different shade of orange. Fake. Boss Man slipped his hand inside, pulled out an envelope, and hastily tucked it in the inside pocket of his coat.

_ Bingo _. 

Jason pulled away from the rifle and blinked, letting his eyes adjust back to normal sight. _ Think, dumbass, think _. It should have been a simple job: identify the thing, obtain the thing, kill Boss Man and incapacitate whoever tries to stop him. In, out, done. Except now he had to add “don’t get blown up” to his to-do list. Yay.

If he surprised them, they would shoot. That much he could count on. Which means…

He stood and slug the rifle over his back. Reaching into his ammo bag, he pulled out his half-mask and secured it over his lower face. Damn thing. Always hindered his breathing and made his jaw sweat. But Roman wanted him to wear it, and so he did. 

Sighing, he looked down from his position on the warehouse roof, measuring the distance between himself and the slick asphalt. _ Three. Two. One. _

He leapt over the edge of the roof. Swung down the fire escape. Slid down a pipe. His movements were nearly silent, muffled by practice and the careful placement of his feet. In a second he was back on solid ground, blending into shadows, waiting for the nearest grunt to take a step in the wrong direction.

Like that one. There was a lone person standing near his location, a little too far from the safety of his compatriots. _ Idiot. _

Jason unsheathed the knife strapped to his leg. Inhale, exhale. Like a ghost he slipped forward and drew his knife across the man’s throat, slicing deeply as Cade had taught him, to sever the vocal chords. He caught the man before he hit the ground, making sure his collapse was silent. The man stared up at him with wide eyes, gaping like a fish he finally slipped into unconsciousness. It was no more than ten seconds of shock, and most hardly feel the blade to begin with. A kind way to die.

He waited, baiting his breath. Only rookies made the mistake of moving too quickly. Successive kills, silent or not, draw attention. People don’t just drop like flies without anyone noticing. 

Slowly, he peered over to the remaining men. They were almost done with their mission. Only a few were still loading crates into the back of a large delivery truck. The rest stood like good little soldiers, knuckles white around their weapons. There were eleven in total. 

_ Shit. _ If they were scattered, it would have been easy. But in a crowd… Well, they’re trigger-happy morons with an IQ of 100 between them. 

“Alright then,” Jason muttered. He looked down at the dead man at his feet, then bent down and grabbed him under the arms. Effortlessly, he dragged him away from the men, away from the explosives, into the maze of shipping containers behind them. Once he could hear nothing but his own breathing and the distant sighing of the ocean, he took the man’s gun from his belt. The idiots back there would never think to check for a blood trail. Not that they could see one in this light, anyway. 

In quick succession, Jason fired two shots into the air, then thrust the gun back into the man’s hand and heaved himself up onto the container. Shouts echoed from behind them. _ Closer...closer… _

“Is it one of the caped freaks?” someone yelled. 

“I don’t—oh fuck!” Someone else ran over to the dead man and looked him over. “Fuck. Fuck. It’s Gregson. Fuck.” 

“Spread out,” a third voice said. “Whoever killed him has to be close by.”

_ Duh _, Jason thought. God damn lackeys. Do something original, for fuck’s sake! He’d been out on the docks since sunset, after all, waiting and waiting and watching the fog roll in from the safety of the warehouse roof. It wasn’t even worth his time.

Inhale, exhale. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to be one of them:

He is wandering through a labyrinth of steel and iron and concrete, guns and flashlights drawn as he searches for an unknown, dangerous entity. His sinuses are filled with the stench of mud and saltwater. Then, the flash of a shadow. The hiss of steel. A muted scream. The thud of a body. He turns, but no one is there. The search continues. Unease creeps up his throat. Then, he realizes: he is the only one left. His breaths become erratic. He swings the gun, left right up down, until he comes face to face with a wolf.

The last man grunted as Jason drove his knee into his gut. In a second he was on the asphalt, gasping. Jason tilted his head back, pressed his knife into skin, and—

_ Fuck _ . Young, frightened eyes stared back at him. The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen. In another life, the kid could have been _ him _. 

Jason pulled his knife away from the kid’s throat and clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his scream. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, his mask distorting his words.

The kid whimpered.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jason continued. “But if you make a noise, I will. Understand?”

A nod. 

“Go to the East End Clinic. Ask for Dr. Leslie Thompkins. She’ll keep these men off your back. But if I ever see you out here again, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

Another nod.

“I’m going to let go now. Don’t make a single sound,” Jason said, releasing his grip. The kid gasped and touched his throat, as if amazed it was still whole. “Now would be a good time to start running, by the way.”

The kid scrambled to his feet and took off. Jason waited until he could no longer hear the sound of footsteps before heading back to the heist-in-progress. All but one of the men lay dead behind him, not counting the kid he had sent to the clinic. The last man, the lieutenant, stood by Boss Man’s side, nodding like the ass-kisser he was. 

“—the fuck are those morons?” Boss Man was saying. He took another long pull of his cigarette. “It’s not the Bat, is it? Dent said he might show up.” 

“I don’t know,” his lieutenant said. 

Jason gave himself three guesses as to what Boss Man would say next: A. _ It’s quiet. Too quiet _ , or B. _ I have a bad feeling about this _ , or C. _ I’m getting too old for this shit. _

“It’s quiet,” Boss Man said, exhaling smoke. “Too quiet.” 

_ Very creative. _ The absolute apex of humanity, wasn’t he? It was almost a shame that Jason needed to put a bullet in his brain.

Inhale, exhale. A flash of black. A strangled cry. The crack of broken bones. The heavy stink of blood. All too easy, really. He even caught the cigarette before it fell from Boss Man’s lips. 

Jason held it to his lips and breathed deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, then ground the cigarette into the wet pavement. Reaching into Boss Man’s pocket, he pulled out the envelope. Inside lay a simple flash drive. Generic brand. Probably encrypted. 

_ Alright alright. _Time to clean up and head out of there. Unless… 

He looked back at the delivery van. TATP was expensive stuff, and dangerous too. Thousands of innocents could die if the wrong people got their hands on it.

It only took him a minute to retrieve his ammo bag from the roof and head back to the van. His motorbike he could collect later; this was the more important vehicle. He was just about to search Boss Man for the keys when he heard the unmistakable _ thwip _of a grappling hook gun.

_ Fuck. _He dove beneath the van and clung to its underside, his ammo bag resting on his chest. 

Someone walked over to the two bodies by the truck. Well. Someone _ glided _over to the bodies. Their silence would have been admirable, if it didn’t drive his heart into his throat. 

“Dead,” the person muttered. Their voice was deep, gruff. 

“What was it, B?” 

There were _ two _of them? God damn it. 

“A black market deal, most likely a cover up for the intel exchange.”

“Should we search for it? The intel?” 

“No,” the first person replied. “Whoever killed these men, they left the explosives behind.” 

“They got what they were looking for.”

“Exactly.” The first person seemed to turn away from the other. “Oracle, inform the Commissioner of illicit materials and several casualties at the docks. I’m sending you our locations now.”

_ Oracle. Commissioner. B. _

Jason’s eyes widened. This meant that the first man was—

Rage coursed through him. He ached to drop to the ground and fight, not just because his arms were growing weary, but because the son of a bitch was _ right there _ , alive and well while countless others suffered because of him. The man deserved to die a thousand deaths, one for each body broken by his hand. No, not _ die _. Death is a mercy. He needed to live. To suffer. To know how his rules play no part in justice. 

_ Don’t engage with Batman, Little Wolf, not until we’re ready. _

God damn it. Jason grit his teeth and did not dare to move. For seven years Roman had taken care of him. Roman knew what was best for him. Roman would not have him engage so soon. 

But boy, did he want to. 

The second person knelt down to examine Boss Man’s body. Jason pulled himself close to the underbelly of the car, just in case the second person were to glance towards the van. From his position he could see that the person was wearing dark body armour. His shoulders and chest were marked in blue. _ Nightwing _, he remembered. Batman’s first brat, or so the stories go.

God, how much longer were they going to stand there? Jason’s arms began to tremble.

“Whoever did this,” Nightwing began, “did it fast. They didn’t even have a chance to fight.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“Any ideas?”

“Search the bodies by the containers. We’ll see what we can find.” 

Nightwing stood. “Right. What—wait. Did you hear that?” 

Jason held his breath. His grip loosened; his heart hammered in his ears. _ You can’t take both of them _ , the voices said. _ Roman said so _. 

“Move,” Batman said.

One second. Two seconds. Then Jason heard it too: a crash from the other side of the docks. And when he looked again, Bats and his buddy were gone. 

He fell from the underbelly of the car, landing hard enough to shock his lungs. No time. No time. He had to run, _ now _. 

Jason sprinted away from the sound, away from Batman and Nightwing and whoever had drawn them from his side. Farther and farther he ran, until the docks were a half mile behind him and he could see the body of his motorbike hidden beneath a tarp and a tangle of fishing nets. He kicked the bike into gear and pulled away. Thank god for the silent, humming engine.

When he pulled into Roman’s garage, he nearly slid to a stop, his knees coming dangerously close to scraping the cement floor. It was over. He hopped off the bike and slid the ammo bag over his shoulder, feeling it bump against the small of his back as he walked to the elevator and entered the code: 1985386. The doors parted, and he stepped inside. 

Roman was waiting for him in the living room, reading a newspaper with a cup of coffee. The past seven years had aged him, but just barely: the hint of gray in his dark hair, a crease above his brow. “You kept me waiting,” he said.

Jason ripped the mask off of his face. “There was a hiccup. The bastards were hauling acetone peroxide.” 

“I see.” Roman licked a finger and turned the page. “Did you find what you were looking for, or did Batman take that too?”

_ Fuck _. Jason tried to keep his anxiousness from showing on his face. “How did you—”

“—know that he was there? Please. He’s _ Batman _for fuck’s sake. Of course he’d be there. You’re lucky I care about you enough to get you out of trouble.”

Ah. He reddened. “Thank you, sir.” 

Roman ignored him and stood, tucking the newspaper under his arm. “This is what I’ve been talking about, Little Wolf. Once again you’ve disappointed me.” 

“I got it,” Jason said quickly. He slipped the thumb drive from his pocket and held it out. “Here.” 

“Did he see you?”

“No one ever sees me.” 

Roman’s lips curled into a sneer. “Don’t brag to me,” he hissed, snatching the thumb drive from Jason’s hand. “Everything you are is my creation. I _ own _you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The man sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, Jason,” he said, after a moment, “you know I care about you. You worried me, coming back so late.”

Jason bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Go clean up and get some rest. I’ll tell you what we find on this little trinket you brought us.” 

“Yes, sir,” Jason replied, kicking himself mentally for being so stupid. Roman was right: Of _ course _Batman would show up. How could he not have anticipated that? Seven years of training, and he was still stupid as shit.

It made him wonder about the things Batman said to Nightwing. What was their partnership like? How often did Nightwing fuck up? Once, twice a year? 

_ Enough, dumbass. _He shouldn’t be thinking about that shit. He should take a shower and sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. Another chance to show Roman that he could be the wolf Gotham needed.

♟♟♟

Jason slept until two in the afternoon. As Berner served him a chickpea chicken salad, he thought: _ Wolves are nocturnal creatures _. But excuses were for the weak. Roman taught him that, long ago. 

After, he pored over every report ever written on Batman, Nightwing, the whole motley crew. Where they patrolled, what weapons they used, how they got the upper hand in fights. He sat cross-legged at the desk of his private study—another part of Roman’s real estate, on floor thirty-six—papers spread around him and all three computer monitors displaying blurred close-ups of the Batsuit. The man was well-prepared; Jason had to give him that. Batarangs, stun gun, flame-thrower, tear gas pellets...any more equipment, and he’d be a one-man armory. 

_ Hell _ , Jason thought, noting the hand-held boosters attached to his belt, _ he already is _.

Someone walked in and stood over his desk. Roman.

“Studying?” he asked.

Jason nodded, typing _ cut line before it goes taut _on his list of things to practice. 

“Shut it off,” Roman said. He tossed something on the desk. An envelope, neatly folded and embossed with the initials W.E. “Make yourself presentable. We’ve a gala to attend.” 

“Gala?” He raised an eyebrow. “Like a ball?”

The man laughed sourly and made a gesture of annoyance. “It’s a charity event. ‘Youth in Need’ or some bullshit. Another ego trip for Bruce Fucking Wayne.” 

_ Ah. _ So it was Wayne throwing this thing. No wonder Roman looked so disgusted. Fucking Bruce, with his money and arm candy and weaks attempts at generosity. The man was no better than Batman, really. Roman would never pretend to be something he wasn’t. He didn’t hide behind a shiny company or flashy smile. He knew _ exactly _what he was, and that was admirable.

Irony at its finest.

“I see,” he said. _ Fuck that shit. _“If I may, why are we even attending this thing?”

Roman sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “We all have masks, Little Wolf. Some of them are more metaphorical than others, but that doesn’t mean they are not there.”

“I see,” Jason said again.

“Besides, a few of Gotham’s elite need unmasking.” 

Jason let out a humorless laugh. If there was one thing he learned about the rich—and he’d learned plenty—it was that they’d do anything to retain power. This, combined with their flawed understanding of how the world worked, made them easy to break.

Roman continued. “Seeing as I will be indisposed all evening, I will be unable to accept a package from a certain associate of mine. I trust you can do something so simple.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good.” The man spun on his heels and headed for the door, but caught it halfway. “Brush up on names ahead of time. We wouldn’t want them thinking that I picked you up off the streets, would we?” 

Jason nodded, shutting off his computer and standing. He grabbed the envelope and took out the invitation, reading:

_ Please join the Wayne Foundation for our 8th annual children’s charity benefit. Saturday, August 3rd, at 7:30 in the evening… _

Ugh. He couldn’t read any more. 

The suit fit him well, at least. It was simple, not quite as simple as he would have preferred, with its smooth notched lapel and straight trousers, but at least he did not have to wear a bow tie or a waistcoat. And it was black too, thank god. He’d have preferred the fires of hell over a flashy jacket. 

Pumping gel into his palm, he smoothed his hair as best he could, making sure the stubborn locks above his forehead did not fall into his eyes. Ha. The young man in the mirror looked like he played golf and polo and drank mimosas at brunch. Hardly a shadow of that boy from the streets. If it weren’t for his eyes, sea-green and sharp, Jason would have thought himself an entirely different person. 

His gratitude for the disguise only grew as they pulled up to the Museum of Modern Art. Dozens of couples, groups, and individuals ascended the steps of the museum, dressed as if they were attending a red carpet premiere. A few news vans were parked along the street; reporters spoke excitedly to the cameras. 

“—raised a total of three million dollars—”

“—several hot auction items expected to draw a crowd—”

“—the enigmatic CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Mr. Bruce Wayne himself—”

Jason turned his face away from the eyes of the cameras. To his surprise, Roman did not. The man smiled wickedly, showing a mouthful of bone-white teeth, perfect accessories for his blinding three-piece suit. It was another part of the game, Jason supposed. Another part of the mask.

Inside, the wealth grew only more ostentatious. The main hall of the museum had been converted into some MET Gala wannabe: crystal lights, gaudy statues, pedestals overflowing with colored blossoms. Soft music hung overhead like smoke, and Jason recoiled.

Was Roman trying to prove something by bringing him? Jason already knew that he didn’t belong here. He belonged out on the streets, not as a starving child, but as a soldier, someone who had the guts to do what needed to be done. Places like this, with the fancy clothes and fake generosity and million-dollar smiles, they made him want to turn inside out. 

God. He’d kill for a xanax right about now. 

“Ah.” Roman pointed to a pair of younger men speaking with a red-haired woman. “Those are Wayne’s brats. I hear the taller one is something of a whore. You two would get along.” 

Jason flinched as memories of rough hands raised bumps along the skin of his arms. _ Pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy… _Biting his tongue to keep from lashing out, he looked toward the pair Roman had pointed to. It was difficult to see their faces across the distance, but he could tell that they were both dark-haired and relaxed. At ease with the falsehoods around them. The taller one that Roman had singled out wore a rich blue suit, the other was dressed in sky gray.

“Funny,” Roman mused. “Wayne does have a strange habit of picking up pretty little dark-haired boys. You’d have fit in quite nicely, in another life.”

“I’d have killed them all,” Jason muttered.

“Now now, Jason. Is that any way to speak of our host?” 

He forced a fake smile over his face. “A joke made in poor taste, sir,” he said, exaggerating the elite Gotham accent he had grown to know so well. 

“Keep it together for just one night,” Roman said, his smile just barely disguising the threat in his voice. Then, his gaze settled on someone Jason could not see. His smile stretched into a grin. “Ivan! You’re still alive?”

He pushed past Jason to greet an overweight blonde man in a tuxedo. _ Ivan Burgess _, Jason remembered. A councilman serving on the Gotham Committee of Technology.

“Funny,” Ivan said, taking Roman’s hand and shaking it once. “I can say the same of you. It’s good to see you haven’t retreated with your tail between your legs.”

Something dark passed over Roman’s face, but it was quickly swallowed by a laugh. “My parents’ disgrace of a company is no fault of mine,” he replied. “Your career in office, on the other hand—I’m joking! Joking.”

Ivan’s laugh came from deep in his belly. As he found his composure, he seemed to notice Jason standing there. “Who is this fine young man?”

“Oh, just an assistant of mine. James, this is Councilman Burgess.” 

“Very nice to meet you,” Jason said. 

“James, I’m going to have a quick chat with the councilman.” Roman shot him a grin. “Go enjoy yourself! It is a gala, after all. I hear the mythology exhibit is _ quite enthralling _.” 

“Sure. Come find me if you need me,” Jason said, grinning back. As he left, he heard Roman saying something about “trust fund kids” and “Daddy’s money.” He did have to hand it to him; the man was good. 

At the bar he ordered a scotch, tossing his ID on the counter when the bartender asked. James Thomas, born on the 18th of July, was twenty-two years-old and a native of New York. He was six foot even but weighed one-eighty, not two hundred, and graduated from Gotham University with a Bachelor of Science in Business Economics and a minor in sociology—_ magna cum laude _, of course. James met Roman through his father, Gregory Thomas, who ran a small but successful cybersecurity firm in New York City. 

The bartender looked at the ID, looked at him, then took out a bottle of Ballantine’s and poured a generous splash into a square glass. She smiled as she extended the drink. She was a pretty young woman, probably hand-picked to appeal to the old men at these types of events. 

Jason tucked his ID back in his pocket, where it rested against a sad piece of gum and a scratched cell phone. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the drink. It chilled his fingers, and when he drank, it seared his throat. He exhaled softly and turned back to the crowds behind him.

It must be fashionable to be fifteen minutes late. More people have poured into the main hall, mingling around statues with drinks in their hands and laughter on their faces. The stones in their ears, the watches on their wrists…the street rat in him was having a field day. 

He took another sip of scotch. Boring, boring, boring. Roman would crack these people like eggs.

The alcohol was beginning to warm his chest. Experience told him it would take a few more glasses to push him past tipsy, but now was not the time to get smashed. That kind of behavior was best suited for his room, past midnight, with a bottle of vodka and a book he’s read a hundred times. Right now he needed his gaze to be sharp; Roman had told him that a small package would be left for him in one of the exhibits—the mythology exhibit, if his farewell was any indication—and that it would be hidden in the blind spot. Drunk eyes would be a weak asset. 

Taking a deep breath, Jason downed the rest of the drink and set the glass on the bar. People flattered. Laughed. Danced. Exchanged values. He pushed past them all and slipped up the first set of stairs he could find, looking down at them through large glass sculptures suspended from the ceiling. The directory told him to take a right, then a left. A few people lingered by some of the more flashy exhibits, but it seemed like most of them were downstairs, enjoying the party. 

_ Great _. He didn’t even have a challenge to divert himself.

The voices from the party had begun to fade., and soon they were gone completely. Jason took one more left and entered into a brightly-lit room devoid of people. 

Around him was a simple gallery: white walls, various plaques, scattered ottomans. The walls displayed several medium-sized canvases and framed drawings, most abstract, some less-so. To the right, bold letters read: **Drawing mythologies in modern times.**

He walked around the room, eyes searching for something that seemed off. There were two cameras: one in the back left corner, pointed directly at a roped-off painting, another mounted above the archway that led to the hall. No obvious blind spots, unless—

The frame of the archway jutted out slightly from the wall, perhaps by one, two inches. Enough to conceal a small package, for sure. 

Jason stuck his head out into the hallway. No one. 

Quickly he jumped up and caught himself on the edge of the upper frame. When he pulled himself up, he could see a small object—a memory card, perhaps?—to his left. He grabbed it and fell, landing silently on the floor. 

It _ was _ a memory card, a little dusty but otherwise intact. The card looked like it belonged to a camera of some kind, a Sony. Not at all like the kind of thing Jason would expect Roman to need.

_ Doesn’t matter _ , he reminded himself as he slipped it into his breast pocket. _ It’s not your job to know. Not yet _. 

Right. That was quick. Two whole hours lay between him and the end of the night. 

Jason sighed and walked over to the nearest painting. It was a charcoal drawing of a woman, her arms protecting her head as a dozen owls beat the wind around her. _ The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. _Francisco de Goya, 1799. 

“The Modern Myth,” someone said.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. The young man speaking to him was the most beautiful human he had ever seen. Dark, messy hair fell to his ears, and his skin was a deep, rich olive. When he smiled, his blue eyes threatened to trap Jason in place.

“It’s the name of the exhibit,” the young man said, as if that were the reason Jason’s tongue was heavy in his mouth.

“I see.” Jason coughed and looked away. _ Who the fuck is this guy? _No way there was a photo of him in Roman’s directory of names; he would have remembered such a face. Fuck. Did he know how much his suit brought out his eyes? 

_ The suit. Bruce Wayne’s ward. _

“The name’s Dick,” the young man said.

“Really?” 

“It’s been my nickname since I was a kid.”

“Fuck.” Jason laughed. “Your teachers must have hated you.” _ And everyone with eyes, too _. 

Dick smiled widely. “Maybe. Are you gonna give me yours or should I start guessing? Because I’d say you look like a Callum. Maybe a Hugo.” 

“Close. James.” 

“Damn.” Dick’s eyes twinkled, making Jason’s stomach twist sharply. “That was going to be my third guess.”

_ Fuck. Get your shit together, Todd. _

“Right.”

“That painting’s a little bit freaky,” Dick said, staring at the woman with her arms over her head. “I’ve never been a fan of owls. This one is much better.” 

Jason looked to where he was pointing. It was a painting, small, with dark colors that had faded over time. Still, he could make out two winged women flying over a man. _ Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing Crime. _Pierre-Paul Prud’hon, 1805. 

“Right,” he muttered. It would make sense for a rich kid to like this painting. Dick probably still believed that the world worked this way, that the police were on his side and that Batman would save them all from the chaos of Big Bad Criminals. Wealthy bastards like his adoptive daddy would never be hurt by justice.

Scoffing, Jason sat down on one of the ottomans and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He should have brought some molly or _ something _. At least then he’d be able to enjoy himself.

No, no. He had a mission. Behave until the end of the night. Then give Roman the package. The memory card. 

“What?” Dick raised an eyebrow. “You’re not bored already, are you?”

“Please. There’s _ nothing _ more exciting than a _ gala. _”

“Says the guy up here all by himself.”

Jason glared at the other man. “But I’m not all by myself, am I?”

“Yikes. Be careful not to cut anyone with that tongue.” 

Silence. Jason stared at the white space on the walls, waiting for Dick to take a clue and leave. God damn him, with his beautiful face and big smile and perfect fucking life. 

Dick looked at him for a moment, then sighed. “I’m going to head back,” he said. “You sure you don’t want to come?” 

Jason grunted. Dick didn’t move. 

“Hey,” he said. “Are you alright? I saw that you came here with—”

“I’m peachy,” Jason snapped. _ Get the fuck away from me _. 

Instead of shirking away from him, Dick laughed. “Good to know,” he said. “You have a phone?” 

“Why?”

Dick reached into his pocket—Jason tensed, until he remembered where they were—and pulled out a card. He held it out, and Jason took it cautiously. It was blank, save for a series of nine digits. “If you’re ever not peachy,” Dick said, something serious on his face, “you can call me.” 

_ Rich boy to the rescue! _

“I won’t.”

The other man shrugged. “You never know. It was nice to meet you, James.”

Jason didn’t say anything. He stared silently at the Prud’hon painting until he could no longer hear Dick’s footsteps echoing down the hall. _ Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing Crime. _Roman would get a kick out of that one. Funny, how only Vengeance was given the title of Divine. Almost as if the painter knew that Justice was a fraud. 

_ Well _, he thought, standing. He had the package. He didn’t need to be sober anymore.

When he was back in the main hall, he saw the unmistakable blue of Dick’s suit by the bar. _ Shit _. There goes that plan. Instead, he headed in the opposite direction, pushing through crowds until he found Roman by one of the large, ribbon-like structures to the side of the hall. The man was chatting up some executive or whatever, a glass of wine perched between his fingers.

“Ah. There you are. Excuse us for a moment, Dr. Elliot,” he said as he saw Jason approaching. After a nod from the doctor, Roman grabbed Jason by the arm and tugged him to the side. “Did you enjoy the galleries?” 

“The artwork was _ quite _exquisite, if you ask me.” 

Roman gave him a cloying smile. “Thank you, Little Wolf,” he said, his fingers creeping into Jason’s pocket. He froze, unable to blink, unable to breathe, until they retreated, the memory card trapped between them. “It almost makes me forget your little mishap yesterday.” 

Jason’s voice was tangled in the back of his throat. “You’re welcome, sir.”

“Do try to avoid trouble for the next few hours.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Roman waved him off. “That’s all,” he said, turning back to face the doctor.

Jason stood there, waiting for some sign to tell him what to do next. A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Dick was still by the bar, so that idea was no good. Perhaps he should just find an empty gallery and screw around on his phone. Or he could screw something else. 

It took him only ten minutes to find someone. An older man, thin, with silver fox look about him. He looked at Jason like he’s a piece of meat, and that was enough.

Even through the fabric of his pants, the cold tile of the bathroom floor chilled his knees. The man gripped his hair too tight, to the point of pain. But Jason didn’t say anything. The pain made him forget Roman, forget Dick, forget what he’s doing, forget himself. Nothing like a bit of self-loathing to spice up a night. 

After, the man groped at the front of his slacks, bit his ear, and slipped his business card in Jason’s hand. A real Prince Charming. Jason tucked the card between his teeth, like some office pin-up girl, and grinned, pressing his tongue against its back. 

“Cute,” the man said, as he left. “Call me.”

Thoughts of Dick suddenly raced across his brain. His number was still in Jason’s pocket, just waiting to be called. _ If you’re ever not peachy _…

Yeah, right. 

On his way out of the bathroom, Jason threw the young man’s number in the trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Officer, I didn't take "Little Wolf" from some popular fantasy RPG. I promise.
> 
> If you're a sucker for angst (like I am), check out my [High School AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433530/chapters/48476960)!


	5. Robin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I'm mean to Jason, you should see what I do to my original characters.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: graphic violence, homophobic language, starvation.

Jason was reading _ Faust _ in the library when Roman started shouting. The words were muffled by the penthouse walls, but he didn’t need to hear them to know what Roman was saying. It had been two weeks, and neither Roman or his _ associates _were able to find anything. The encryption on the thumb drive wasn’t even that hard to crack; just a simple Twofish algorithm that any experienced coder could break within a day. No, the encryption wasn’t the issue. It was the data. 

The thumb drive contained only a few files. First there were maps, places that Batman had been known to patrol, other locations where he had been sent on League orders. There were 3D files of the batsuit, drawn to scale. Approximations of Batman’s height and weight. Names of his associates, vigilantes and Leaguers alike. In short: everything they knew already.

(Strike One.)

Only the last few files were anything of note. They were two .JPG files, scanned images of fingerprints labelled as “Right Thumb” and “Left Index.” Taken from a storm drain in Paris after some chick named Korrigan challenged the Justice League to a fight. 

The files labelled them as Batman’s. But they did not have a match. 

(Strike Two.) 

At least the pictures on the memory card were interesting. They spanned years, almost a decade, if the time stamps were anything to go by. There was Batman fighting alongside a young teen, Robin. Batman with Nightwing. Batwoman. Green Lantern. The Flash. All were from different angles, highlighting his jaw, his hands, his lips, the color of his eyes. The last of the bunch showed Batman with a new Robin, a focused young man in a costume less green and more black. 

In all of them, the Bat’s cowl was up.

(Strike Three.) 

The yelling continued, growing closer with each passing second. Jason buried himself in the book, focusing on the lines of the poem:

_ Who holds the devil, let him hold him well, _   
_He hardly will be caught a second time. _

“—ounded by you fucking idiots!”

_ Shit _. Jason put the book down just in time for Roman to barge into the library, fire in his eyes. 

“Get the fuck up,” he snarled. “We’ve got work to do.” 

“Did you find a match?”

Roman scoffed. “Does it _ sound _ like I’ve found a match? _ Moron! _” 

Jason’s face burned. “Apologies, sir.”

“Save it.” The man motioned for him to come. Jason did as instructed, following him out into the hallway. “We’re moving to Plan B.” 

“Plan B?” 

“Batman’s fingerprints don’t exist in any known database on Earth. And he’s careful never to be seen without his cowl. Do you know what that means?”

“We can’t identify him.” 

Roman pushed him into the elevator. The doors closed behind them, and the gears of the shaft _ whirred _ softly as the elevator began to drop. Floor Thirty-seven. Floor Thirty Six. Jason kept his breaths steady, trying to work out what the nature of Plan B. _ We can’t identify him _. At least, not with the information they already had on hand. 

They walked through the labyrinth of offices on the thirty-sixth floor, Roman fuming, Jason thinking. At last they came to a pair of double doors. Reinforced steel, with a fingerprint scanner. Roman ran a hand through his hair and sighed. The tension left his face, though his shoulders remained upright and stiff. 

“We’re going to have to do this a different way, Little Wolf,” he said, removing his left glove to place his thumbprint over the scanner. There was a beep, and the doors unlocked with a thud. Roman pushed through, and Jason followed.

It was an office, not so different from his own, only larger in scale. Two walls were glass; the other lined with books. The sunset washed over them, red and orange and purple, but it was not the light that captured Jason’s attention. 

The board was huge. Six feet by three feet, easy. It was covered in mug shots, news articles, crime scene photos. Plastic bags held lone batarangs. There were some shots of Batman, some articles too, but most were devoted to—

“Boy Wonder?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t he?” Roman walked over to the board and plucked off one of the photographs. Robin—the second one, judging by his black and red costume—swinging from a grappling hook between the buildings of the Otisburg District. His short back hair flew behind him. And he was fucking _ smiling _. 

_ God _ . Something churned in Jason’s stomach. To see someone so young, so _ happy _, working with Batman… That brainwashing son of a bitch.

“Let’s see,” Roman said, “Dark hair. Pretty smile. Athletic. Sound familiar?”

Jason shrugged. “Sounds like Nightwing.” 

“Don’t play dumb, boy.”

Silence. Then Roman laughed.

“I see,” he said. “You’re not playing. Come. Look.” 

It was an article. BOY WONDER SAVES STUDENT FROM FIRE. There he was below the headline: the first Robin, grinning as he held hands with an elementary school-aged girl. And behind that article: ORPHANS FIND NEW HOME THROUGH BATMAN AND ROBIN. And after that, DYNAMIC DUO STOP DOMESTIC DISPUTE. 

Roman stood over his shoulder. Though Jason could not see his face, he could feel his smirk. 

“Notice anything?”

“The reporter think of another “D” word,” Jason said. “‘Dynamic duo drops domestic dispute’ would have been much more catchy.”

“Really, Jason, I’m hardly in the mood for your lip. Prove you’re a smart little wolf and answer the question. What do these have in common?” 

_ Right _. He looked closer. Students. Orphans. Battered wives. Kidnapped children. Innocents, innocents, innocents, all caught up in the brutal fist of crime.

“He likes sob stories,” Jason said. _ Figures. _ Everyone _ loves _ the guy who saves puppies from burning buildings. It was just another way to stroke his ego, wasn’t it?

Roman smiled wickedly. “Everyone has a weakness.” 

“So we’re going to exploit that somehow. What’s that got to do with the little caped freak?”

The man made a scoffing sound as he walked over to his desk and picked up a folder bursting with files. Pushing it into Jason’s arms, he said, “He’s yours to study. I’ve got bigger shit to deal with. Some hotshot’s been taking out my men.” 

“A cape?”

Roman looked at him as if he were a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. Jason could tell that the man wanted to hurt him, not in a severe way, but ordered, almost tender. Like he wasn’t worth the effort. For the past five years he had seen a similar look on Sears and on Cade, and even on Lionel at times, though the former two often crossed the line into violence. Oh well. It was nothing he couldn’t handle.

“Right,” Jason said. “Not my business. I’ll learn what I can about Robin.” 

“Good.” Roman walked back over to his desk and sat. “Send in Ms. Li on your way out. She and I have business to prepare.”

Jason was about to speak again, until a dismissing wave from Roman cut him off. Without another word, he walked back into the office corridors, folder pressed into his chest. Ms. Li was waiting by the doors. She carried an equally large folder, a stern look on her face.

The woman nodded at him as he passed. He nodded back. This was always the extent of their interaction.

He liked her. Not in a friendly way, but as a peer; a colleague. Though Roman’s personal assistant was older than him and rarely smiled away from the presence of her boss, she was the closest thing he had to a real person. She took a spin class. She packed her own lunch. It was as if a normal woman had somehow popped into Roman’s game of felonies and justice.

Which unnerved him a little, if he was being honest. What kinds of things was she hiding under that mask of normality?

Heh. He was starting to sound like Roman.

In his room, he spread the contents of the folder over the floor. Some of the photographs he recognized from the memory card; others he assumed Roman had Ms. Li obtain from news clippings or general public offerings. A lot of it was similar to the files on the board in Roman’s office, so much so that Jason began to wonder if Roman had two copies of everything.

_ Of course he does _, Jason thought. What kind of idiot didn’t keep backups? It was like Cade always told him: even street thugs have copies. 

Once everything was before him, Jason couldn’t help but be reminded of his tutoring sessions not too long ago. Long nights poring over equations, textbooks, vocabulary words in Russian and Italian. _ Subentrare. _ _ Безобра́зие. _ _ Legame. _Some nights he was captivated by the words and the knowledge. Others…well, he wouldn’t have minded a few strong drinks to knock him out. 

“Christ,” he muttered, picking up an article. He looked at the date—the seventh of February, two years ago—and set it to his left. The next article was from the twenty-third of August, eight years ago. 

_ Alright, alright. _Step one: organize them by date. 

Anger gathered in Jason’s chest. Was this really the best way to use his talent? Someone like him, he should have been out on the streets, bringing down thugs and scouting for information on the Bat. He should have been cutting down the wicked where they stand, doing the things that wannabe vigilantes like Nightwing or Black Canary or Spoiler, ruined by the faulty tenets of the Justice League, are too weak to accomplish. Not arranging articles about the Boy _ fucking _Wonder!

“Fuck!” He crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it across the room. It bounced off his wardrobe and rolled over the floor, back toward him. His pulse throbbed in his ears then, slowly, began to cool.

_ Piece of shit _ , he thought. _ Can’t even follow directions _. 

Besides, organizing gave him something to do other than sit around or run drills in the training gym. For two weeks Roman hardly had him attending business meetings in seedy bars, let alone going out on missions. He ached with boredom. Drinking: boring. Clubbing: boring. A night at Noonan’s, high off his ass on candy as he fucked some aspiring stripper in a toilet stall, hissing with pain as she dug her claws into his back: boring. 

At least acting as Roman’s temporary secretary gave him boredom with a purpose. Hell, maybe he could pretend to be an office drone, so caught up in the mundanity of life that he hardly noticed the world falling apart around him. 

As he laid the papers and photographs next to each other in a grid over his floor, Jason found himself thinking about Robin’s identity. Everyone talked about the man behind the cowl. But the kid, he had to have come from somewhere, right?

He held up the earliest article he had found, perhaps the earliest there was to find: BAT AND BIRD: A NEW PARTNERSHIP?

_ Who were you before you became his bitch? _

There were only a few options, really. 

Option A: Robin is Batman’s son. (Possible, but unlikely. Knowing the Bat, he probably wouldn’t have waited until the boy was a teenager before sending him into the fray. And as much as Jason despises the man, he doubts that Batman would breed his own little army. That was too obviously the stuff of supervillains.)

Option B: Robin is a kid who moonlights as Boy Wonder. (Very unlikely. That would be too big a secret to keep from parents, schoolteachers, friends. Once Mom and Dad found out, they’d put a stop to it and tell the whole world of Batman’s identity.)

Option C: Robin is an orphan, taken in and trained by Batman. (This is most likely true. But orphans don’t just disappear from records. Which means that Batman would have to take them from places where no one would miss them. Places like East End. Places like the streets.)

_ Huh. _Option C it is.

That made sense, Jason reasoned, given Batman’s weakness for the disenfranchised. The sick bastard probably got off on raising a little team of warriors. Jesus Christ.

There was a laptop on his dresser. He retrieved it and started searching for any hints of Robin’s identity. If the rumors were true, and Nightwing was the first Boy Wonder, then he must have been about thirteen when he started patrolling the streets. Which means that he was orphaned at least six months before that, given the type of training he would have had to received. _ Maybe _ , Jason thought, _ there’s some record of his parent’s death _. It was Batman’s first brat, right? So maybe he made a mistake, left some record untouched.

He started his search for murders between thirteen and ten years ago. Low-life stuff. Things that would have taken up a square inch of the _ Gotham Globe _ . COUPLE FOUND DEAD IN THE NARROWS. BOY MISSING FROM GUNN’S HOME FOR BOYS. That kind of shit. 

A list of names started growing at his side. Max Beasley. Keith Atkins. David Meyer. Cody Wolfe. Luke Saunders. All children missing or presumed dead. All from the East End. 

Though, unless Batman was having his wards dye their hair, Keith Atkins and Luke Saunders, with their blond locks, were out. But the rest, with their wide eyes and dark, matted hair—

A sudden thought struck him. What if…what if Roman really needed a boy with sad eyes and a sharp knife? His gut buzzed as he made sense of it all. Someone vulnerable… Yes, someone vulnerable. Someone innocent. And—he looked again at the photographs before him—someone _ charming _. With a bright, wide smile. 

When he stood to look in the mirror, he noticed how dark it had become in his room. Dusk had settled over the city, and only thin light illuminated the floor beneath his feet. How long had he been staring at these files? Three, four hours? 

Jason flicked the light switch, filling his room with the warmth from the suspended lights overhead. He could see himself in the mirror now; his eyes underlined with exhaustion, his sharp jaw clenched in concentration. When he was living in the East End, his face was rounder; filled by youth. His eyes were wider, his hair tangled and messy. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself as Batman, coming across that young boy in an alley. Would he see another Robin? Or something far more dangerous? 

_ Well _. It was stupid of him to think about that now. 

Gathering the files into the folder, he tucked them under his arm and found Roman in his study. Or, more accurately, he waited outside the double doors until Sears opened them from the inside, glaring. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

“Who is it?” someone called from inside. Roman. 

Jason held up the folder. “I’ve finished looking over the intel.” 

“We’re busy. Fuck off.”

“Sorry big guy,” Jason replied, pushing past him and into the office, “I take orders from—” 

His words cut short. Before him, a dozen men were gathered around Roman’s desk. Or at least, he assumed they were men. All were wearing black masks not unlike Roman’s: skeletal and eerie, almost sensual in the way they hugged the skin. _ Not to mention the whole BDSM look _, Jason thought, but would not dare say. 

“Who the hell is this?” one of them whispered. 

Roman stood in the midst of them, his own face shielded by that familiar mask. “Jason,” he said coolly, though there was an edge of danger in his voice.

He swallowed. “Sir, I’ve—”

“Did I tell you to interrupt me, or are you really that foolish?”

“I—” 

“Answer the question.”

His face flushed in anger. “...Foolish, sir.” 

The men around Roman chuckled, then stopped abruptly as they saw the heat in Roman’s gaze. 

“And do we reward foolishness?”

Jason doesn’t have time to answer before someone throws a fist into his gut. _ Fuck! _ He grunts and doubles over in pain, fingers clutching the folder to keep the files from spilling over the floor. No: it’s not that bad. It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. It’s nothing. 

“Apologies, Sir,” he said. “I wanted to return the intel.”

Roman sighed and put a hand to his face, as if wanting to rub his temple. “Can’t you see that we’re in the middle of something?”

“I see that now, Sir.” 

“Very well. I suppose you are seeing what I see now, yes? About Boy Wonder?” 

Jason paused. Why did he think it was a good idea to barge in like that?

“Go on. Talk. Pretend they aren’t here,” Roman added, gesturing to the men around him. 

_ Don’t doubt yourself, idiot _. “The Big Man is a sentimentalist. It’s his weakness.”

“As we have established.”

“Yes,” Jason said, ignoring the men’s sniggers. “And he can’t resist saving pretty children. Most likely from the streets. I’ve gotten some names to look into, some brats that could have been the first Robin.”

Roman stood quietly for a moment. He seemed to turn over the idea in his head, staring intently at Jason without really looking at him. “And where,” he began, “did I ask you to do that?” 

Jason shrugged. “I took the initiative.”

The man sighed and turned to the others around him. “You see, gentlemen,” he said, “you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink. I tried Jason. I really tried to give you the chance to figure it out for yourself. To let you see what I see.” 

“Sir?”

Roman held up a hand to cut him off. “Gentlemen. What do you see when you look at this _ boy _?”

“He’s young,” one of them said. 

“Looks like he’s asking to get hurt.” 

“He’s afraid,” another said, and Jason bristled. _ Afraid? _

“Watch yourself,” he growled.

Another one laughed. “Oh, a street boy for sure. Can’t hide that accent.”

Roman laughed. “See, Jason? You’re our own little Robin. _ You’re _Batman’s weakness.” 

_ What? _ That can’t be right; he’s too old. Almost twenty-one. And he’s strong. He can take anyone in a fight, human or metahuman—hell, he’s even _ killed _. He’s no Robin.

“You’re fucking with me,” Jason said flatly.

“Hmmm.” Roman looked him over. “Perhaps you are a bit too healthy. That’s my own fault, of course. I should have known it would come to this, should have been less generous—nothing a little time can’t fix. Sears?”

Jason made a noise of indignation. “What the—hey!” He yelped as Sears and two other men pinned his arms behind his back and started dragging him toward the door. “The fuck? _ Jackass! _ Roman! What is this?”

“Don’t worry,” Roman said nonchalantly. “We would never do anything too permanent. I need you to trust me.” 

“Roman! Jesus, fuck!” He struggled to find solid footing as the men pulled him away from the room. _ What the hell? _ Roman wouldn’t...he _ wouldn’t _. 

Before the door shut, he heard Roman say, “Don’t you trust me?”

♟♟♟

Jason had forgotten what it was like to be hungry. He had forgotten the violent emptiness of the stomach, how it tugs at the edges of the body as if it wanted you to implode. He had forgotten how, limp with aches and exhaustion, he could only wait for sleep and yet was too pained to drift off into unconsciousness. 

He _ had _forgotten. But it had become all too familiar once again.

The room Sears had locked him in was no bigger than a jail cell. Hell, maybe it _ was _a jail cell, somewhere Roman could keep the men who, foolishly and with the promise of a hefty reward, turned against him. The floor was cold metal; the walls blank cement. No matter where he lay, he could not find comfort. 

The first day, he banged on the door of his room, shouting Roman’s name until his voice grew thin. Only after he was weak did Sears come in and place cuffs around his wrists and ankles, so tight that his skin burned. “Boss’ orders,” he said, and slugged him across the jaw. 

Jason spat blood. “Fuck you!” 

Another blow. He glared, but did not speak again. 

The second day, he started drinking water from the sink, partly because he was thirsty, partly to fill the void in his stomach. He spent the rest of the day looking out the window, wondering what it would feel like to put his fist through the glass. At some point, he punched the wall. His knuckles came back bloody.

The third and fourth days, he did not remember. 

The fifth day, Sears came back to tighten the cuffs. Jason tried to push him off, but his arms were weak; useless. He could only sit there, hissing and spitting, as the man drew a knife across the meat of his thigh in a long, deep cut. And when Lionel came to staunch the bleeding and to draw thread through his skin, he let out every obscenity he knew. 

“Son of a bitch! God damn it! Fuck you! Fuck! Fuck!” 

Lionel packed up his things and laughed.

The sixth day, Jason worked up enough energy to throw himself against the door again. He lost his footing and fell, cracking his head open on the metal of the floor. Until the sun set, he held his shirt to his head, teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness. But he didn’t bleed out. 

At the end of the seventh day, he hurt. Everywhere. His head throbbed like the world’s worst hangover; his thigh stung; his wrists and ankles ached. Jason lay on the floor of the room, letting the cool of the floor soak into his skin. 

“_Fuck _,” he hissed. The stitches in his leg were tingling. God, he wanted to scratch. He wanted to scratch them so badly, but if they tore, he’d bleed out and—

Roman wouldn’t let him die. He wouldn’t. So when was he going to come for him?

Fuck Roman.

Jason licked his lips. His saliva stung the places where his dry lips had cracked and bled. He was so hungry. So, very hungry. 

Behind him, the lock clicked. He couldn’t even look up to see who it was. But he could tell from the shoes, from that musky cologne, that it wasn’t Sears.

“Roman,” he groaned, pushing himself onto his elbows, knees, feet. His vision wobbled; the earth seemed to spin around him. “What—”

“My poor Little Wolf,” Roman cooed, brushing a loose strand of hair away from Jason’s forehead. “I’m so sorry. Just a little longer, okay?”

“Better be worth it,” Jason mumbled. 

Roman grinned. “Oh, it will. Trust me. It will. Come.” 

“Where are we going?”

“All these years,” Roman said, “And still the questions. I’ll give you this, Jason. You’re a fighter.”

_ Tell me something I don’t know _, he thought, gritting his teeth as he took a wavering step after Roman. All his life he’d been fighting. For his mother, he fought. In East End, he fought. In Crime Alley he fought. He would keep fighting. That’s what he had to do. That’s the only thing he could do. 

Jason thought about this as he stumbled into a strange car outside the high rise. It was too old and dull to be one of Roman’s, some basic SUV-type vehicle. And there was _ dirt _ . On the _ tires _. 

It was of little surprise to him that they drove to the East End. Of course it was the East End. Roman’s sense of humor was wickedly ironic, to say the least. 

After they stopped, he stepped carefully from the back seat of the car into an alley. His head was still spinning; his body aching. 

Roman turned to him and smiled. “Here, put this on,” he said, handing him a small medallion, no bigger than a quarter, engraved with an image of a wolf. “Nice, don’t you think? Especially for something you stole from your former boss.”

_ Your former boss _. His tone of voice told Jason all he needed to know. His thumb brushed over the raised part of the engraving, the little bumps of the wolf’s teeth. “And I assume this thing is valuable? That’s why I stole it?”

“It’s valuable enough for me to track you down. You remember your little act?” 

“Remind me,” Jason replied, slipping the medallion over his neck. It rested against the center of his chest, cool and heavy. 

“You know. That thing you did before you swindled people from their money. _ Help me! Oh god, help! _” 

“Your impression of a child isn’t very good.” 

Roman shrugged. “There are worse things to do badly. But you do remember, yes?”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to run screaming to Batman? Something tells me he’s not going to be fooled by a little fake blood.” 

“Who said it would be fake?” 

_ Oh _. Jason bit his tongue to keep from sighing. “Of course,” he muttered.

“Look at me, Jason.”

He did.

Head cocked to one side, Roman brought a gloved hand to Jason’s face. He drew his fingers down a cheek, cupped his jaw between them. “I trust you, Little Wolf,” he said, and let him go. 

Jason looked away. The night was still. A dog barked somewhere down the block, bits of trash blew around his feet. Street lights flickered. It was too cold; too foggy. 

He kept his gaze fixed on the ground even as Roman backed away, even as two of his men stepped forward, even as he heard the crack of knuckles. He didn’t need to look. He knew what was coming, anyway. 

The moment he felt the men’s presence before him, he took a breath, and let a hard face slide over his. Chin up, back straight: he was too much of a soldier to be afraid. 

_ It will all be over soon. It will all be over soon. _

“This the kid?” the first asked.

Roman looked them over, his eyes cold behind his mask. “He’s all yours. Nothing permanent, boys.” 

Jason looked over the two figures in front of him, then bared his teeth at the men. “Just do it,” he spat. “Let’s get it—”

He didn’t have time to finish before the second man’s fist drove into his stomach. It took every ounce of him not to lash out, to resort to his training and break the man’s head against the bricks. 

_ Although _ , he thought, panting, _ I’m really in no condition to fight, anyway. _

“Harder,” Roman hissed. “Remember, this boy stole from the Black Mask. Hit him like you mean it.”

The first man slammed him back against the wall of the alleyway. Jason grunted; his eyes began to water. The man hit him again. Once, twice. Another time, in the face. 

“Again. Yell at him.”

“Fucking bitch!” the man snarled, driving a knee into Jason’s stomach. The air flew from his lungs. He gasped and fell to his knees, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning. 

Suddenly he felt Roman’s presence over him. “It’s alright, Jason,” he said softly. “You can scream. I would like you to scream.” 

As the first man threw him to the ground, Jason yelled, “Stop!”

They didn’t. He expected as much.

Someone kicked him in the head. Jason wasn’t sure who; he could barely see past the bright lights in his vision. His ears rang. His head ached. Roman’s voice echoed, _ scream Jason _ , _ scream Jason _, but he couldn’t do it, it’s not who he was supposed to be—

_ Do not disappoint me. _

Jason screamed. When the points of the men’s shoes met his ribs, he screamed for help. When their knuckles drove into his jaw, his nose, he screamed _ “please! ” _over and over again until his throat burned. Blood poured down his face, into his mouth. He could feel the stitches in his leg rip open; blood was pooling through the fabric of his pants. 

_ “Cocksucker!” _ the men screamed.

_ “Bitch!” _

_ “Useless piece of shit!” _

After some time, Jason found himself whimpering, “Please. Stop.” God, he sounded so pathetic. Like a broken doll. 

Roman knelt over him. “There’s a good boy,” he said. “I’m going to have to leave, but these boys will keep you company, okay? I do hope to see you again, Little Wolf.”

With the little strength he had, Jason nodded. He was vaguely aware of the roar of an engine, the stink of oil, the silence that followed. Then, one of the men grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, placing the blade of a knife against his arm. “Boss’s orders,” he snarled, smirking. 

The blade pressed deeper. Blood, hot and thick, trickled down his skin. For the first time, Jason wondered if the pounding of his heart was real. _ This _was real. The men were real. And he could hardly lift his arms to brace his torso. How could he possibly fight them off if they decided to truly hurt him, if this was no longer play pretend?

And then the man drove the blade into his shoulder. 

Again Jason screamed. That one was real. His shoulder exploded in white-hot pain, sending a spasm through the left half of his body. 

The other man laughed. “Oh shit, he didn’t like that. Do it again.” 

The blade twisted inside his flesh. Jason could feel the muscle tear, the tendons snap. He squeezed his eyes shut and rode through the agony, writhing beneath the man’s grip. Burning, burning. That’s all he could think about, the sharp point of the knife, sliding through him—

“Stop!” he choked out, finally. “Stop! Fuck!”

With a smile, the man yanked the knife from his shoulder, and thrust it into Jason’s thigh. A strangled yell escaped him, cut off by the second man driving his toe into Jason’s side. 

“Weak little bitch,” the second man hissed, and shoved him onto the pavement. 

_ When is it gonna stop? When are they gonna stop? _

Someone punched him. Twice. Three times. Jason curled into himself and whimpered, trying to drive the pain from his body. His hand rested in a pool of his own blood.

“That’s right. Keep crying.”

“The Boss was too nice to a cocksucker like you.” 

“I just don't get it.”

More punches. A kick. Somewhere in the distance, Jason was vaguely one of them pressed their knee into his chest and pushed him into the asphalt, laughing as they sliced through the fabric of his shirt. 

_ This has to be enough. It has to be enough. _

The point of a knife pressed into the bare skin of his chest. “What should I carve here, huh?” a voice said, dragging the blade in waves across him as another voice laughed. The smell of oil and cigarettes filled Jason’s lungs. “Traitor? Bitch? Whore?” 

_ No, wait… _Jason felt his clouded mind slipping back to reality. They weren’t supposed to do that. They were supposed to beat him, not brand him like some common villain. Nothing permanent, Roman said. Nothing permanent.

Beads of blood started to spill down his torso. The man had begun to cut. 

_ No no no no no no _.

“Ge’ off!” Jason shouted, trying to push the man away. He writhed. Screamed. Suddenly his hands were on the man’s face, scratching. His fingers came away red. The weight on his chest disappeared.

“Son of a bitch!” the man screamed, cupping his bleeding face. Jason scrambled backwards but slipped. He could not support himself with his injured arm. 

Strong hands shoved him back down. The other man. He had forgotten about the other man. And now fingers were wrapped around his throat, squeezing. He choked. Clawed. But his arms were too weak, too heavy. 

It was all too familiar, suffocating in an alleyway. Maybe he was meant to die on the streets, alone, struggling, waiting for the darkness to eclipse his vision—

The pressure was gone. Jason gasped, and cool air filled his lungs. Behind him, a body hit the ground. He heard shouts, a gunshot. The impact of _ something _in skin. More shouts. But when he tried to look, he only saw blackness. 

Then it was silent, save for the heavy wheezing coming from his mouth. Jason brought a tentative hand to his shoulder to search for the wound and found it, still spurting blood like a fountain. _ Have to stop the bleeding _, he thought, but he didn’t know how.

“Are you alright?” a voice asked, and Jason recognized it immediately. It was the same voice he had heard at the docks, belonging to the same man he had seen in photographs, news articles, surveillance footage. 

Batman. 

Jason tucked into himself so the Dark Knight would not see him smiling. Besides, it made him look smaller, even more vulnerable. A sad, battered little bird. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Tune in next time to <strike>finally</strike> see more of the Batfam!


	6. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Nightwing's ass made my week. Just saying.
> 
> Anyway, as promised: Batfam interactions! Definitely a much lighter chapter—but don't worry, more bad things will come. If there is anything/anyone in particular you would like to see in this fic (sad or otherwise), let me know! I have an outline, but how I get from Point A to Point B is flexible. :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: references to violence and alcohol.

The Big Man tried to bring him to the hospital. That’s when Jason decided to put on a show.

“No no no no no,” he muttered, forcing each recurrence of the word to appear more desperate, more pathetic than the last. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but his thoughts were coming clearer now. He knew exactly what to say, what to do. “Oh god no. Please. Please don’t.”

“You need medical attention. You’re bleeding out.”

“You can’t,” Jason sobbed. “He’ll kill me!”

Batman looked at him with compassion in his eyes. _ Fucking egomaniac. _Roman was right; he couldn’t resist a broken little boy. 

“Who will kill you?” 

“Black Mask!” 

Something dark passed over Batman’s face. “I know someone who can help you. It will be discreet.” 

Mind racing as fast as it possibly could, Jason thought about what he had learned of Robin: scared, vulnerable, _ alone_. 

“Please,” he said, “I need your help. I—I can’t trust anyone. Not after…” He looked down at himself and started sobbing. It wasn't hard. Though he was used to pain, he was not used to the exhaustion of starvation, the weakness that clung to every movement, even the flutter of his eyelids. Despite it all, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Crying helped alleviate that want, somehow. 

Batman looked down at him, silent. After a moment, he asked, “What’s your name, son?”

_ He knows _ , the voices said. _ He can see right through you_. 

Roman, Cade… they were always saying that he should never underestimate his opponent, least of all Batman. It would be no different from facing down a speeding train with the assumption that it would stop. You don’t know if it will stop. There are too many factors involved; too many ways for it to go wrong. Maybe the train won’t see you. Maybe the train wants to hit you. Maybe you’re just a stupid boy, waiting for death on a pair of rusty tracks. 

If he lied, Batman would know. So he didn’t. Besides, it would make other lies easier. The best lies are the ones that are mostly true.

“Black Mask, he—he called me James,” Jason said. “But my real name is Jason.”

“Jason.” Batman seems to taste his name on his lips, and disgust boils in his gut. Fuck. He should find something sharp and drive it through the Bat’s chest, get it all over with, no more pretending—

_ No_. He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. 

Batman spoke again, interrupting his thoughts. “You worked for Black Mask?”

Jason nodded, and forced himself to start crying again. _ That’s it, that’s it. _ , the voices said. _ Reel in the fish_. 

“Please,” he whimpered. “He’ll kill me. He—I haven’t eaten in days, and I just—I just—”

“It’s going to be okay.” Batman knelt down slowly, perhaps afraid to touch him. Or perhaps in an attempt to seem concerned. Like he actually cared about some beaten up ex-lackey in an alleyway. 

_ But he should _ , Jason reminded himself. _ Make him care_. 

He flinched away from the man’s outstretched hand. “Don’t hurt me! I’m sorry!” 

“I would only like to check your wounds. May I do that?”

It all came back so easily, as if it had never truly left. _ Hyperventilate. Stare at the pavement. Quiver with fear_. 

“Jason?” 

“Al—alright,” he muttered. 

He was expecting Batman’s hands to be rough, to poke at the cuts and bruises carelessly, like the compassion of the act disgusted him. But they weren’t. They were gentle. Kind. Jason let his hair fall into his face as the man checked the wound on his shoulder so that Batman wouldn’t see him studying his face. Did he recognize that mouth from somewhere? Hard, curved downward in a crescent? It was a strong mouth, that was for certain. And those eyes, such a deep blue— 

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Batman said. “You will die if I don’t take you to the hospital. I can have someone watch over you until you’re healed. I have people you can trust.” 

“I can’t trust anyone.” 

“You can trust me.” 

_ Yeah, right _, Jason thought. But he nodded his head and wiped at the blood that dripped down his face, hoping that the action was innocent; childlike. His nose throbbed as his hand brushed against it. Broken. Again. 

When Batman held out a hand, Jason took it cautiously, wincing at the sharp pain in his wrist. He stumbled through the alley, over the limp bodies of the men who were beating him. One was groaning softly, mindlessly. His leg stuck out at an odd angle. The other man seemed to have suffered some type of head injury; his temple weeped blood. 

“Don’t look at them, Jason,” Batman said, as if Jason could be disgusted by the sight of broken bones. Ha! He’d seen so much worse, he’d _ done _so much worse. And so had Batman.

Still, Jason turned away and squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered how he used to slip wallets from people’s pockets, how he’d stumble into their chest like a child learning to walk. Right. Now would be a good time to do that again.

The man didn’t even flinch. Of course he didn’t. Bastard.

“Will…will you come back for me?” Jason asked, as he was helped back into a steady position. 

Batman paused and looked at him. Something flickered across his blue eyes. Suspicion? Concern? Pity? In better circumstances Jason might have been able to tell. But now, given his physical state, he could hardly tell the difference between pain and anger. Best to play it safe. Sweeten the deal. 

He continued. “He—Black Mask—he needs to be stopped. I want—I want to help.”

“I see.” Whatever was in his eyes, it had gone. “Do you think you can keep walking?”

The thought of being carried by Batman sent a wave of repulsion through him. No, not repulsion. Actual nausea. Despite the emptiness inside him, Jason leaned over and dry-heaved. His whole body trembled, and his legs gave way. _ Fuck_. He was even weaker than he thought. 

_ But that’s...good _ , he reminded himself. _ More bait...for the...for the hook_...

Darkness overtook his vision. Somewhere in the distance, he was aware of Batman’s arms wrapping beneath his knees and behind his back. And then the weight on his limbs was gone, and cool air brushed against his skin. With the little coherence he had left, he noted how strong the man must be, to pick him up like a ragdoll. It would have been admirable, if not for...if not…

He woke suddenly in a dark room. The strange pressure on his limbs and face told him that he had been patched up, threaded together and all. And judging from the throbbing in his face, his nose had been reset. His arm was in a sling; the wrist wrapped tightly. The other hand was covered in medical tape and iv tubes—some sort of intravenous nutrition, probably. 

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Had he been in some sort of accident? A bar fight? A mission gone wrong? 

The mission. It all came back at once. Roman. Robin. The alleyway. The Pain. 

Batman. 

“You’re awake.”

Jason made the mistake of snapping his head to look at the voice. Too fast. His vision filled with white and he groaned.

“Hey, hey. Are you alright?”

He blinked hard, waiting for his sight to clear. When it had, he saw a kid in a cape—no, not just a kid. Robin. Fucking _ Robin_. He was even more insufferable up close, practically oozing goodwill and pretension. _ Look at me! I’m Bats’ little Buddy! I’m all for justice! _

_ Not the time, dumbass. Not the time. _

“Where am I?” he asked. To his surprise, he didn’t need to pretend to be groggy. Each word was sluggish and dry on its own. No acting required.

Robin leaned against the wall across from him. “Let’s call it a makeshift hospital. You were really roughed up. Good thing Leslie’s a genius.”

Leslie. Huh. Part of him wondered if Dr. Thompkins recognized him; the other part knew that she wouldn’t. Even if he weren’t black and blue, he looked too different. 

“Right,” he said. God, his mouth was so dry. Almost sticky. “Where’s...where’s Batman?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I—”

“Nevermind.” Robin laughed coldly. “You’re an interesting guy, Jason. It’s Jason Todd, right?”

Jaw clenched shut, Jason nodded slowly.

“Did you know that you’ve been missing for seven years? You’re dead. Legally, I mean.”

Fuck. He wanted to grab the kid by his cape and throw him out the window. Not so much for the breach of privacy, but for the stupidity. Robin knew _ nothing _about him and yet had the nerve to act superior, as if being Batman’s little bitch gives him the right to humiliate people with basic information. What kind of fantasy world was he living in?

If only he weren’t broken. If only he didn’t have a mission.

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Jason muttered. “I’m alive.”

“Exactly,” the kid replied. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“I want to help you.”

“He said that you wanted to. But first...” Robin reached into a bag by the door. Jason tensed, until he saw that the kid had produced nothing more than a thermos. Twisting it open, Robin held it out and continued. “You’ve got to eat. Doctor’s orders.”

Jason looked into the thermos. Gentle steam curled from whatever liquid sloshed inside. God. The smell made his mouth water and his stomach groan.

“It’s just broth. Wouldn’t want you throwing up on us, you know?”

Licking his lips, Jason considered what Fake Jason would do. Fake Jason is naïve (in a pitiful way). Maybe Fake Jason would eat without question. But Fake Jason is also scared (understandably). Fake Jason doesn’t know who to trust (except for Batman). Who knows what is _ really _in the thermos?

Not to mention the fact that there _ could _be something in there. Maybe the Dynamic Duo was more suspicious than they were letting on.

“Here,” Robin said. He took the thermos back and took a small sip before putting it back in Jason’s good hand. “See? It’s safe.”

Well. That answers _ that _question. 

Jason tilted his head back and drank deeply, forcing himself to stop after a four-count. The kid was insufferable, yes, but he _ was _ right about the vomit. _ One, two, three, four. Breathe. Wait, two, three four. Again. _

When he is finished, Robin took the thermos from him and slipped it back into the bag. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

The kid’s eyes glimmered. “You’re welcome.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Jason stared at Robin, not entirely positive that he didn’t appear pissed-off. He wondered if this one knew the former Robin and if they got along. He wondered if they remembered life on the streets, or if Batman took them before they could spell their own names. It was most likely the latter. After all, no street boy could look so smug.

“So,” Robin said at last, “what did you do to him? Black Mask, I mean.”

“I, uh, took something,” Jason replied, fumbling for the pendant around his neck. His fingers found nothing. _ Fuck _, he thought, eyes desperately searching for a hint of silver on the surgical table, the chair by the empty doorway. Nothing. “Did you see—”

“The necklace. We have it.”

_ Oh_. He settled into himself. “Right.”

Robin’s eyes searched him. For a weakness, perhaps? A lie? Jason wondered if he should start crying again, but figured that wouldn’t work on the kid. So he landed on the next best thing.

“Did...did I do something wrong?” he asked.

“No.”

“Oh. I just—” He looked away and bit his lip, as if trying to hold back a surge of emotion. “Nevermind. I guess I’m tired. That’s all.”

Robin looked like was about to say something else when a light on his gauntlet started flashing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Jason felt himself saying, because that’s what Fake Jason would say. “Don’t—”

He was already gone. Heh. So those rumors were true.

Jason leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, focusing on the tingling of each cut and bruise, trying to get rid of the pain by breaking it into its components. His shoulder ached and burned when he moved, but that’s all it was. Aches and burns. And those things were simple; temporary. The same could be said about his wrist, his leg, his nose. It was all pain he could get over, and therefore wasn’t really pain at all. 

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the ceiling tiles, those white squares that stretched from one edge of his vision to the other. It reminded him of his time locked in Roman’s cell—but only barely. Here at least there were other things to focus on. Machines. Monitors. Sutures. Pictures.

One in particular caught his eye. A bird, red and white and black, perched on a tree branch. A red-headed cardinal, by the looks of it. There was nothing special about the picture, except for the fact that it was colorful and that Jason didn’t know why it was there. Did it help people to see pictures of birds? Surely it would be nothing more than pain; a reminder that they’re stuck here while other creatures flutter about with total freedom. _ Sucks to be you… _

He imagined that Fake Jason found comfort in the cardinal. Fake Jason would see it as a symbol of hope, a promise that he’d get away from the person he once was and from the men who did this to him. He would think that he needed redemption. He would be so weighed down by guilt that he could hardly see straight. He would say things like, “maybe there’s a chance for me.”

Robin’s voice broke him from his thoughts. “Can you walk?” 

Jason looked down at his legs, covered by a thin woven blanket. When he tried to move his feet, the muscles obeyed, though the stab wounds in his leg flared and stung with every movement. 

_ Except you’re not _ actually _ in pain, remember? _ the voices said.

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Yeah. I think so.”

“He asked that I put this on you. May I?” Robin held up a piece of fabric. No, a blindfold. 

_ Jerk back. Blink. Pause. Then slowly, nod_.

The blindfold took everything, even light. Jason felt the kid take the IV out of his hand and release the sling that held his injured wrist. Then, he was helped from the bed, and they were on the move. 

How would Fake Jason walk? Slowly, for sure. He’s in a lot of pain after all. And he shies away from noises, even though there are few to be found in the long, empty hallways around them. Perhaps he is tentative; perhaps he is so familiar with lonely places that their features conjure up the memory of blood and screams. His limp is pronounced and his breaths are jagged. When he emerges into the night, he raises his face to the sky, as if shocked that the world still exists. He doesn’t say much, not even when he is guided into a car of some kind, not even as the car stops and Robin leads him into the building.

“We’re here,” Robin said, and the blindfold was gone.

They were in some sort of safe house—generic, like an apartment built by IKEA. Chairs, a sofa, a table, a fridge. All very sterile and plain. If he had to guess, Jason would say that they were somewhere in Otisburg, given the taste of salt and plastic in the air. Somewhere near Ace Chemicals, perhaps. 

Robin motioned to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

Jason sat. The kid took a seat at the table and pulled a laptop from his bag. Blue light filled the room as he started typing, clacking away at the keyboard as he pored over information Jason could not see.

He watched Robin for a moment, studying the way the tip of his tongue stuck out as he concentrated. _ Something we can use _, he thought. Perhaps they did not need a face. Perhaps all it would take was a few quirks and some general details:

**ROBIN II**  
**NAME:** ???  
**AGE:** 15–16  
**HEIGHT:** 5’8”  
**HAIR:** BLACK  
**EYES: **BLUE?  
**OTHER: **NOSY. STICKS TONGUE OUT OF MOUTH. 

A shadow entered the room. Jason could not see it, but he could sense its presence behind his back. There was the sound of mechanics, a slight whirring, like a movie projector, or plates of armor settling into place. He didn’t need to turn around. He knew who it was by their silence.

“Talk,” Batman said, coming into view. 

Jason flinched as he knew Fake Jason would. “What do you mean?”

The man held out something, a microchip. “Robin found this in that pendant of yours. Do you know what it is?”

“A tracking device?”

“Information. On Black Mask.”

Instinctively Jason froze, his heart beating hard in his mouth. A million thoughts raced through his brain. _ Surely Roman knew—of course Batman would find it—Roman wouldn’t hurt himself— _

“What...what kind of information?”

“Routing numbers, mostly,” Robin called from the table. “‘Course, the accounts have already been drained. Black Mask is quick. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Jason didn’t say anything. This was Roman’s plan all along, wasn’t it? Make him look like he’d been caught in a lie. After all, a victim with a secret has much more potential than a regular victim. Of course Batman wouldn’t be able to resist. 

Is Fake Jason a bad liar? Yes. Most definitely.

“I didn’t know,” he said, with just enough hesitancy to make his words seem doubtful. “I just...I thought it was just a pendant.”

Batman sat down across from him, but not in a leisurely manner. He kept his back straight and his weight on his thighs, ready to spring back into action at the smallest hint of a threat. The sitting was symbolic, mostly. Trying to get Fake Jason on their side.

“It will be easier if you tell the truth,” he said.

The truth, the truth...what could the truth be? Jason chewed his lower lip, thinking. Perhaps he was kidnapped by Black Mask, and had just recently escaped? No, he was in too good shape for that. He had joined Black Mask and was disgusted by what he saw? No, that wouldn’t work either. If he had joined so recently, he would not have access to such sensitive material. 

At once his own words came back to him. _ The best lies are the ones that are mostly true. _

“He took me in,” Jason muttered. “I was only a kid. He thought he could train me to...to kill someone, and I had to get away. He’s a bad man, and people have to know, and I—oh god. I was only a _ kid_.”

“Who?” Batman asked gently. “Who did he want you to kill?”

Jason took a shaky breath, and looked the man in the eyes. _ Should I? _ Yes, that was the only way. Lies they would see through. But the truth...who but an innocent man would tell the truth? 

“You,” he said. “He wanted me to kill you.”

♟♟♟

Personally, Jason thought that Batman handled the news better than he would have. But then again, the Caped Crusader was used to that kind of thing, wasn’t he? Riddler, Bane, Scarecrow, Clayface, et cetera, et cetera, they were always trying to kill the Bat. It was part of the job. At least Jason was being up front about it. At least Fake Jason was apologetic.

After he had told Batman his truth (well, Fake Jason’s truth), the man said little. He was surprisingly incurious for someone exposed to his own assassination plot. Or maybe he was arrogant enough to think he knew everything. Whatever the case, Jason didn’t really care. His only mission was to be irresistible.

He pleaded with Batman, spouting all sorts of bullshit about fear and not wanting to be alone and _ please I need to help you, I have to_. He made sure to keep his eyes wide, his mouth parted like a Renaissance figure. When he cried, he only let himself sob a little, enough to add color to his cheeks and a wetness to his eyes. His lips got puffy after a minute of crying, not fat like a porn star’s, but innocent; sweet. 

And like Roman said. Bats likes pretty birds.

It seemed to do the trick. He was left alone in the safe house, with a pre-programmed phone and food and instructions not to leave. There were clothes in the dresser that should fit him. He was to text a certain number every four hours and to consume as he could stomach, but only liquids. And if he ever felt that he was in danger, he was to push this button on the phone. Blah, blah, blah.

At first he sat motionless on the sofa, because he knew that that’s what Fake Jason would do, and because he didn’t know if there were cameras hidden in the walls. Then hunger got the best of him and he drank an entire protein shake from the fridge. 

Whoops. Too fast.

When he had finished throwing up, He climbed into the bed and buried himself under the covers. It was hard to lie comfortably, what with all the stitches and his sprained wrist. No matter the position of his limbs, something hurt. 

_ I shouldn’t be doing this _ , he thought. _ I should be finding some way to report back to Roman_. 

But maybe there was some logic to resting. After all, if he was broken beyond repair, how could he possibly be an ally to Batman? How could he get the chance to stab him in the back?

Right. Yes. He should sleep.

The next day, he woke to the sound of a clock tower. So it was Otisburg, then. Light streamed through the only window in the bedroom, illuminating the clouds of dust that swirled in the air. The blankets on the bed had fallen off in the night, leaving him exposed to the morning chill, protected by nothing but a single, thin sheet. In the light Jason could see that he was still in the clothes he had been beaten in, a pair of black cargo pants and a tee shirt. Dried blood clung to the tears and to the skin beneath. Even more flaked from the crooks of his joints.

_ Fuck. _When was the last time he showered? 

Groaning, Jason heaved himself out of the bed and into the bathroom. He looked terrible. Like a punk who didn’t know how to defend himself. The skin around his eyes was blackened, his lips, forehead, and cheeks were decorated with bright red bruises. Not to mention the blood that had crusted beneath his nose and around his hairline. 

He ran the shower and, after finding waterproof bandages in the cupboard to cover his stitches, stepped inside, taking care not to wet the bandages on his wrist. The water was warm and soothing, gentle enough not to agitate the bruises or smaller cuts. Filling his lungs with steam, Jason closed his eyes and let the water wash over him. He felt better, stronger, already.

Batman was mostly right about the clothes. They fit well enough. Perhaps they were a bit loose for his taste, but at least they didn’t smell like blood and sweat and dirt. Jason had just slipped on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt when he remembered to text the number Batman had given him.

_ I just woke up, _ he wrote. Then he added _ sorry _ because he felt that that’s what Fake Jason would say.

He received no response. In all fairness, he doubted that Bats would take the time to respond to anyone, sad victim or otherwise. It would hurt that aura of mystery and broodiness, wouldn’t it?

Sighing, Jason walked into the kitchen and grabbed another protein drink. He drank this one slowly: _ drink, two three four, wait two three four. _

“You’ve got a nice method, there.”

Jason nearly spit the milky sludge over the tile. He spun around, stumbling as his bad leg buckled under the sudden movement. The drink landed next to him, spitting out liquid over the floor.

“Shit,” he hissed, cradling his thigh. Someone ran—no, _ breezed _over to him, moving with such grace and agility that Jason saw nothing but a floating blur. 

A gloved hand appeared in front of him. “Oh god. I’m so sorry.” 

“S’alright,” Jason muttered as he thought, _ fuck you, asshole_. He took the hand and stood, finding himself looking into the bright blue eyes of Nightwing. Even behind a mask, the man was stunning up close: all lines and edges, taut muscle, full lips pulled into a smirk. For a second, Jason froze. Then the moment passed, and he remembered what and where he was. 

_ Batman sure likes blue eyes and black hair _ , he thought. _ Maybe it’s an ego thing. _

“Are you okay?” Nightwing asked. He sounded different than he had at the docks, more playful, as if he became a different person in the light. Part of Jason thought he remembered this new voice, but he could not place it with a name.

“Yeah. Can’t say the same about the floor, though.”

Nightwing grinned. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”

The thought of Nightwing, on his hands and knees, cleaning the floor, stirred particular emotions to Jason’s mind. Too bad Fake Jason was a pussy.

“No,” he said quickly, picking up the bottle before more liquid could spill out onto the tile. “Please. I—I got it.”

The other man shrugged. “Can we start over, then?” he asked. “Hi. I’m Nightwing. You must be Jason.”

“News travels fast, I guess,” Jason replied. 

“What can I say? It’s not every day that a kid tries to kill Batman.” 

“I’m not a kid. And I didn’t try to kill..._ him_.”

Nightwing shrugged. “Right. Of course.” 

The two of them stood in silence for a moment, seemingly unaware of how to continue speaking. Was this some type of Bat Strategy, using awkward silence as an intimidation tactic? To be fair, Jason didn’t know where to look. The thought of Batman and Company made him ill, but _ fuck _, Nightwing was gorgeous. Can’t look at the face. Can’t look at the shoulders. The floor, perhaps? 

When he could stand it no longer, Jason cleared his throat. “So, why—”

“—am I here?” Nightwing laughed. To his disgust, Jason found himself blushing. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

_ I wanted to_. Interesting. So it wasn’t just Bats who was a secret softie. The little Robin didn’t seem so convinced by Fake Jason, but maybe this one was different. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to have more people sympathize with him. 

“I’m feeling okay,” Jason replied, making a show of rubbing his shoulder. “The shower helped.”

“Do you need anything?”

_Vicodin or percocet should do the trick_. _Some vodka or whiskey would also be lovely._ _Got any xanax, do you? _

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Maybe some tylenol.”

Nightwing looked at him curiously, his head cocked like a dog. “You’re different than what I expected,” he said. 

_ Fuck you_. “What were you expecting?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone more angry, maybe.”

“Who says I’m not angry?”

“Right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge.” 

Now it was Jason’s turn to stare. What was this guy playing at? Nightwing seemed to trust him, and yet...Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. But it wasn’t about Fake Jason—it couldn’t be—it was too lighthearted, almost intimate. Like he had stumbled across some inane but mildly embarrassing secret.

_ Focus, Jason_. It wasn’t his job to figure out what their deals were. He had to gain their trust, find their identities, and wipe Batman off the face of the Earth. 

Jason started a new list in his head:

**NIGHTWING**  
**NAME:** ???  
**AGE:** EARLY TO MID-TWENTIES  
**HEIGHT:** 5’10”  
**HAIR:** BLACK  
**EYES: **VERY, VERY BLUE  
**OTHER: **CHATTY. COCKY. <strike>HAS A GOOD ASS</strike>

“Anyway,” Nightwing said. “I just thought I’d pop in to make sure you weren’t dying or anything. Did Batman give you the number?”

Jason retrieved the phone from his pocket and held it up. “I’ve already texted him.” 

“Good to know you _ can _use a phone.”

“What do you mean?”

Nightwing grinned. “Nothing. Sure there isn’t anything else I can get for you?”

Jason sighed. The guy was persistent; he had to give him that. It probably made him feel like a real hero and not just a sidekick in spandex. _ Might as well stroke his ego _ , Jason thought. _ That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? _

“I was reading Woolf’s _ Orlando _before...before I came here,” he said, trying his best to look embarrassed. Fake Jason hated inconveniencing people. “If you could get me a copy, that would be—I’d be grateful.”

“Tylenol. _ Orlando_. Done.” Nightwing nodded curtly. 

“Thank you.”

Nightwing turned as if to leave, then paused. “A question,” he began. “What made you change your mind?”

Jason frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Robin tells me you worked with Black Mask for years. And then out of the blue you steal his banking information and book it. Why?” 

What would Fake Jason say to that? _ Shit_. He should have spent more time perfecting his alternate’s life. He’d have to to that later.

Nightwing must have noticed his hesitation, because he smiled kindly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

_ A silent man is a liar. _

Sighing, Jason muttered, “No, I just...I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend!” he replied, trying to sound both angry and regretful. Eyebrows tense and curved. Mouth parted. Eyes wet. Then, softer, bitterly: “I’m not the person he wanted me to be.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. You think I’m a liar like everyone else.” 

“I don’t think that. And neither do they.” 

_ Fake Jason is contemplative _ , Jason decided. _ Fake Jason doesn’t know what to say to that. _

After a moment of silence, Nightwing smiled again. “Right. Take care of yourself, Jason. We’ll be back for you shortly.”

“Yeah.” Jason coughed and met the other man’s eyes. “I will.” 

When he was halfway out the living room window, Nightwing turned around and said, “By the way, ‘Jason’ suits you a lot better than ‘James.’ Good choice.” 

And then he was gone. 

“Guess news _ does _ spread fast,” Jason muttered to himself. Oh well. At least he had confirmation that Bats and his brats did hold a particular interest in him. That was good. Step one was complete. Now all he had to do was earn their trust, earn his place on the team, and find some way to off Batman when he wouldn’t have a chance to protect himself. Heh. Maybe he could poison his wine. That would be hilarious. The Caped Crusader, brought down like the tyrant he is.

Jason looked down at the puddle of liquid pooled by his feet. He had a lot of work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never read _Orlando_ but I probably should.


	7. Adjustment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not good at writing romance or sexual tension or whatever. Just so you know. <strike>I'll improve someday.</strike>
> 
> This will be the last chapter with mopey injured Jason, because I'm getting sick of Fake Jason too. Jay, buddy, I understand. Really.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: drinking, unhealthy coping mechanisms, brief mentions of abuse.

A brief history of the life of Fake Jason Todd:

<strike>Fake</strike> Jason was born in East End to Catherine and Willis Todd. He spent the first few months of his life in a hospital because his mom <strike>was a fucking junkie</strike> had substance abuse issues. As a child he <strike>hid under the kitchen table when his parents fought</strike> had a turbulent home life, and was often <strike>neglected</strike> <strike>abandoned</strike> left to fend for himself. His father was <strike>really shitty</strike> not often present, but found the time to teach him <strike>how to rip off tires</strike> how to survive on his own. <strike>Fake</strike> Jason used these skills to support <strike>his mother’s drug habit</strike> his mother after his father <strike>did something stupid</strike> was incarcerated, until <strike>he found her dead on the bathroom floor</strike> <strike>she accidentally overdosed</strike> her death. He was able to survive by <strike>stealing car parts</strike> fixing cars and <strike>lifting wallets</strike> pawning abandoned goods until he <strike>tried to steal Roman’s tires</strike> ran into Black Mask on the streets. Black Mask <strike>had been watching him</strike> saw something in him and <strike>asked</strike> <strike>threatened</strike> told him that he would provide <strike>Fake</strike> Jason with a home if <strike>Fake</strike> Jason were to help him with something. <strike>Fake</strike> Jason said yes. <strike>Fake</strike> Jason <strike>knew that</strike> did not know that this something involved murder. 

For seven years <strike>Fake</strike> Jason trained with a <strike>son of a bitch named Cade</strike> man whose name he did not know and <strike>took out squads of rival gangs</strike> performed odd jobs for Black Mask. Sometimes he <strike>fucked suits for information</strike> found dirt on people or <strike>beat the shit out of</strike> <strike>tortured</strike> went on recon missions. <strike>Fake</strike> Jason <strike>knew</strike> <strike>did not know</strike> knew he was hurting people but thought it was for a good cause. He started drinking to ease the <strike>boredom</strike> guilt. Them Black Mask <strike>asked him</strike> forced him to <strike>kill</strike> murder people who had done him wrong, and he did it because <strike>he was ordered to</strike> he was afraid Black Mask would hurt him if he did not comply. <strike>Fake</strike> Jason <strike>does not mind</strike> hates killing people and <strike>sleeps easy</strike> hates himself for it. So when Black Mask asked him told him to kill Batman, <strike>Fake</strike> Jason <strike>said yes</strike> decided to run. Before he could leave, Black Mask <strike>held</strike> locked him in a cell to punish him. But he was able to overpower a guard and escape. He took Black Mask’s banking information <strike>by accident</strike> because he thought it would help authorities take him down. Black Mask’s men caught him and beat him <strike>until it hurt</strike> nearly to death. He did not know <strike>about the information</strike> that Black Mask had already cleared his accounts.

“That’s it?” Robin asked. He tugged at one of the stitches in Jason’s shoulder. The black thread slid out smoothly, falling into the dish that held the others. A small, bloodless hole was left behind, another in a series along the side of the wound. Nothing Jason wasn’t used to seeing on his body. 

(In fact, his leg was even worse. With so many holes alongside the bright red wound, it almost resembled a centipede. Nearly gave him a heart attack when he took off his pants to sleep.)

Jason nodded. In the ten days of his recovery, he had practiced the story over and over in his head, making sure to mold the details into something sympathetic but imperfect. It would be too much to have Fake Jason be a flawless ray of sunshine trapped in a world of death and destruction. Fake Jason had to be something in need of redemption. He had to be a boy who did bad things to survive, but who could no longer ignore the moral compass still inside him.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s it.”

Robin looked at Batman, who nodded once. “Alright,” the kid said. “Your story matches the records I’ve got of you. Doesn’t look like you’re lying.”

Another stitch removed. Another hole.

_ I don’t think you’re a liar. And neither do they. _

Batman took a step closer to Jason and peered down at him through the cowl. Despite the soft light of the safe house, he looked hard; unforgiving. 

Jason felt his eyes slither to the floor. Like his history, this conversation, these actions, were well-rehearsed. “Are you going to send me to Blackgate?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“Then what are you going to do with me?”

Batman looked him over. “You want to help,” he said. It was not a question. “Then help.”

“I could do a recon mission,” Jason replied, thinking, _ Get me out there. Let me show you what I can do_. “I did a lot of those when I was...you know.”

“No. You need more time to recover. I don’t want you out there.”

Jason bit his tongue to keep from lashing out. _ The fucker is benching me without even giving me a chance! _he thought. God damn it. How long was he going to have to spend holed up in this place?

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

Robin grinned, dropping the tweezers in the dish with the limp threads. “You say that now, but come thirty years and you won’t be able to open a pickle jar. The sutures are out, by the way. Your shoulder looks good.”

_ Fuck you, Junior_.

“Robin’s right,” Batman said. “We don’t want to cause further injury to you or to anyone else. It’s dangerous to embark on a mission without...knowing those on your side.”

Oh. That’s what it was all about. He _ knew _ they didn’t trust him. _ Or_, Jason realized, _ they don’t trust my instincts_. After all, he’d been trained to kill. Who was to say he wouldn’t kill again, even accidentally?

“If you don’t trust me, fine,” Jason said. “I understand. But you should know that I won’t hurt people. I don’t _ want _to hurt people. Myself included.”

“We never said that we don’t trust you,” Batman replied, and Robin did his best to mimic his mentor’s stoic expression. He was trying. It would have been cute, if the kid weren’t so damn frustrating.

“I know you didn’t. But I’d understand if you don’t. I don’t know if I trust myself. Just—” Jason paused, making a show of sighing and biting his lip. “Let me know how I can earn that trust. Please.”

Batman stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Rest,” he said. “Recover. In the meantime, you can start telling us all you know about Black Mask. The information you have is just as valuable as the information we have yet to uncover.”

_ Oh great. _ “I understand,” he said softly. “But please, can I— _ may _I leave? You know, here.” 

Robin gestured to the stitches. “You could get hurt again.”

“I wouldn’t go far. I just need to get out. I feel like...like a prisoner.”

“You’re not our prisoner,” Batman said. 

“Then what am I?”

“For now, a resource. When the time comes, we’ll need to know about Black Mask’s methods.” 

“Where he deals,” Robin added. “Where he sends his men. Products. Names. You know.” 

Jason noted that they did not ask for Roman’s name. _ Odd, _he thought. Perhaps they did not care, or—and this was the more likely scenario—they knew already. Yes, he decided, that would make sense. The elites of Gotham suspected that Roman’s business practices were less-than ethical; the lowlifes were stunned still by his very name. Yet his identity was like the placebo effect: it could be felt and seen, but never proven, never explained. Except now, Batman thought that Jason had the answers. The proof.

Roman would be happy to sacrifice some of his business, his men, for Jason to win the Bats’ favor. This Jason knew for certain. After all, he had already sacrificed him. Left him for Batman to drag off the street and force into his stupid vigilante fantasy. If only he could get word to Roman, somehow, find a way to arrange a trade they could bust...

“Right,” Jason said, trying not to sound annoyed. “You ask. I talk. You investigate.”

Batman nodded curtly. “Good. Let me see your shoulder.”

He straightened. The swelling had gone down, and the skin around the cut, once red and sensitive as a burn, was back to its cool, neutral color. It ached, but did not sting.

Jason spoke before either of the Bats could treat him like an idiot. “I know I have to keep it wrapped. No quick movements, no heavy lifting, no strain.” And then, for good measure: “I’ve been..._ hurt _ like this, before.”

Ah. That did the trick. Something quiet passed over Batman’s eyes, something almost like pity. 

_ Yes. I know. I’m a sad little boy. Blah blah blah_.

“And your leg?” Batman asked. “Any additional bleeding?”

Jason flexed his leg. The muscle contracted beneath his sweatpants, and though it hurt, he let nothing show on his face. Pain was nothing. He could handle being out on a mission. “I’m fine,” he said. “Really.”

“I see.”

_ Sure you do_, Jason thought. _ Sure you do_.

Robin stood to dump the medical equipment in a plastic bag. “Biowaste,” he said, as if Jason didn’t already know that. He looked away to hide the anger behind his eyes.

Silence washed over them. A moment passed. Another. Jason waited for them to speak, to say something about who he was or what he had done. _ I know I’m a bad person_, Fake Jason was supposed to say. _ I’m just asking for a chance_. _ Please. _ But Jason felt like the first part had been established already. And besides, he was getting sick of the sappiness. There was no way he could keep saying _ please _ and _ sorry _ like a well-bred little boy, especially not to a man like Batman. It made him sick. 

“I’m asking for a chance,” he whispered. “Please. I want to do some good in this world. I know I can. Please.”

_ Gag. _

Batman looked at him a moment, then stepped forward. Jason tensed as his instincts told him to run, to strike, to scream. This was a man who beat innocent men and put the worst of the worst, the murderers and rapists and clowns, places where they could roam free, all because they were a bit of entertainment, a bit of color in this hellhole of a city. Batman _ hurts _ people and has the nerve to call it justice. He _ hurts _people.

But he didn’t hurt Jason. The man rested his gloved hand gently on his good shoulder, as a father would to his son. It was a kind gesture, a calming gesture, and Jason was paralyzed.

“I’m so sorry,” Batman said. “The things you have been through...no one should have to experience.”

Robin said nothing, but his face told Jason that he did not disagree.

The man continued. “Please understand, mental recovery is just as important as physical recovery. You need time, Jason.”

_ Oh fuck_, he thought, but he nodded all the same.

“In the meantime, yes, you can leave. But stay in the area. Continue to check in. Can you do that?”

Another nod. Fake Jason would probably be holding back tears at this point, so Jason chewed the inside of his cheek and stared at the floor. In a few moments, his vision was wet. 

“Any—anything else?” he asked.

Batman’s hand fell away. At once the room felt colder, more empty. “That’s all. We will continue to check on you. We truly are sorry, Jason.”

_ Sorry my ass_. Jason looked for some inconsistency in what the man was saying, a bitterness behind his eyes, the slight curl of his lip. But he found none. Either Batman was a very good liar, or he was so deep in his delusion that he believed himself to be a savior. Or maybe he really was sorry.

Ah, but that was impossible.

Jason didn’t say anything else as the two others left him alone. He simply sat at the kitchen table, staring into the middle distance, until the chill in the room raised bumps along his bare skin. When it became too much he stood and put a bandage over his shoulder, pressing tight to stick the adhesive to every crook of muscle. Then he put his shirt back on.

The copy of _ Orlando _that Nightwing had brought him was tucked away on a bookshelf in the living room, as was the note that had come with it. 

_ You’ve got a good taste in literature. _

Now Jason knew that Nightwing had bad handwriting. A useless piece of information in his hands, but maybe Roman would be able to find a match. Maybe.

“Idiot,” he mumbled, maybe at Nightwing, maybe at himself. In addition to the book and the note, the vigilante had left a copy of _ Orlando Furioso_, some Renaissance-era text that wasn’t related at all to _ Orlando_, except perhaps in themes of cross-dressing. Seriously. Could the guy not tell the difference between Orlandos? Maybe next time he’d drop of a pamphlet on Florida or some shit.

Though he had to admit that _ Furioso _was entertaining. Very homoerotic. A little over a thousand pages long, and he’s almost finished his second read.

Fuck. He had to get out. 

Jason grabbed a handful of twenties from a drawer in the dresser, trying not to look like he was rushing. The cameras—because there had to be cameras, though he would not look for them—would record every oddity; every slip-up. He was Fake Jason, getting a breath of fresh-ish air after being trapped indoors for a week and a half. He would return with some groceries, maybe some better-fitting clothes. That was all.

As he left, he made sure to look hesitant, flipping his hood over his head and pausing with his hand on the door handle. _ One, two, three, four_. Inhale, exhale. Open.

The evening sky burned orange, backlighting the high-rise buildings in the distant heart of Gotham. This part of Otisburg felt mostly empty, mostly warehouses and storage facilities for larger companies. He could hear the roar from the stadium not far off, the cry of gulls overhead. Sighing, Jason locked the door behind him and tucked his hands in his pocket. The air was even colder outside, though at least it was not stagnant.

At first he walked slowly. There was no telling how many cameras the Caped Crusader had posted outside the building. Maybe it was none, but maybe it was more, and it was always best to plan for the worst. _ Never underestimate your enemy_.

Only after a quarter mile did he feel comfortable enough to pick up the pace. The streets were busier around this area of Otisburg, more packed with apartment complexes and stores and bars. _ Bingo_. Jason ducked into the first bar he could find, a typical sports joint with three TVs and a smattering of burly patrons. 

“Gin and tonic,” he told the barkeep. The guy wouldn’t ask for his ID. Even if it weren’t fucking Otisburg, in a shitty little dive, Jason hadn’t had a chance to shave in days. He kept his voice low and gravely, and he furrowed his brow to give himself the semblance of wrinkles. If people low-balled his age, they might have thought twenty-four, twenty-five.

The drink wasn’t stiff enough, but Jason downed it in one go. Passing a twenty to the barkeep, he asked, “This bar got a phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me use it and you can keep the change.”

The man shrugged, motioning with his head for Jason to follow him into a crummy little office at the back of the bar. An old landline sat over a pile of paperwork. “All yours, man,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Jason picked up the phone, his fingers hovering over the numbers on the dial pad. Roman’s number was—what was it again? _ Think, dumbass, think_. Squeezing his eyes shut, he relied on the muscle memory in his fingers, and plugged in the digits. 

“Don’t let it go to voicemail,” he muttered to himself. “Come on. Come on.”

The other line rang once, twice. Then it stopped.

“It’s been nearly two weeks,” the recipient said coolly. “This better be you.”

“Yes, sir.”

On the other end, Roman sighed. “You had me nervous, Little Wolf. Eleven days is a long time.”

“I’ve been stuck,” Jason said quickly. “I had to get away from Ba—_him _before I could contact you. I didn’t want to risk—”

“You _ left _ him?” It was easy to picture Roman rubbing his temples, his upper lip curling. “ _ Fuck_, Jason. Are you really such a fucking idiot?” 

“That’s not what I meant, sir,” Jason said through gritted teeth. _ Idiot_. “I’ve been recovering. He put me in a safe house.”

“Well. Have you found anything in the last eleven days, or did a few fists render you useless?”

“Nothing definitive,” he replied. Then, quickly: “The bastards don’t trust me, not yet.” 

Roman scoffed. “I’m sure that _ charming _attitude has nothing to do with it. Jesus, Jason. Are you even trying?”

Though no one was there to see it, an angry blush spread over his face. “They think I’m broken. They won’t let me help.”

“Then _ make _them.”

“I need an op to blow,” Jason said. “What intel can I give them?”

Roman went silent for a moment. Then he said, “Thursday. The docks. Do they know yet what you are capable of?”

“Like I said. They’re worried about my _ mental state_.”

“Typical,” Roman laughed. “He claims to feel sorry for you, doesn’t he?”

Jason didn’t say anything. So Roman continued. 

“Where’s the safe house? We’ll give the Caped Crusader a chance to see you in action.”

_ Ah. _He sighed. “It’s in Otisburg. A warehouse at the corner of 7th and Connolly.” 

“Mmm.” Roman seemed to be writing something down. “To even the playing field, give them one of mine. The apartment in Burnley will do. Never liked that place anyway.”

“Understood.”

He could feel the chill of Roman’s smile through the phone. “Run along Little Wolf. We don’t want the Dark Knight to miss his new pet now, would we?”

“No,” Jason said, but the line was already dead. Right.

He set down the phone and pried open the base of the landline, revealing the tangle of wires and the circuit board. With a quick tug, several of the wires tore open. The phone was ancient as hell, anyway.

“Call cut out,” he told the barkeep as he closed the office door behind him. “I think your phone’s broken.”

“Shit. Again?” 

Jason shrugged, sliding onto a stool next to an unshaven blonde man. The man turned his head to look at him, smirked, and turned back to his beer. _ Fucker. _“What’s your strongest shot?”

The barkeep tapped his fingers together as he thought. “If you like vodka, Devil’s Springs. Made in-state.”

“Don’t care. I’ll take it.”

It burned. But god, did it feel good. Jason sighed as he set the shot glass down on the counter, closing his eyes as the warmth of the liquid spilled from his chest to his fingertips. Above him, some classic song rattled the vents with its heavy beat.

“Bad night?” It was the blonde man asking.

Raising an eyebrow, Jason felt himself huff. The man looked like the type to call himself a movie buff because he’d seen _2001: A Space Odyssey _and _Citizen Kane_. The type that does CrossFit and doesn’t listen to any music you could find on the radio. Before, Jason would have said something offensive, just to start a fight. But now...probably not his best idea. 

“Speak for yourself,” he said, motioning at the empty pints in front of the man.

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

_ Jesus Christ. _“Who said I’m talking?” Jason asked.

“Cute. Want to know what’ll take your edge off?”

“Right.” Wiping his mouth, Jason stood and kicked the stool back under the bar. He looked over to the bartender, who was mixing some red drink for a large woman opposite him. “I don’t do herbal remedies.”

The man grinned. “You don’t even know what they are.”

“I know enough.”

“Fine,” the man replied, shrugging. “Your loss.”

“Is it?”

Something else passed over the man’s face, an emotion between cockiness and conceit. “Maybe you don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he said, taking a quiet sip of beer. “Or who.”

Jason wouldn’t have to give him what he wanted. He wouldn’t have to follow the man to his shitty station wagon; wouldn’t have to kiss him and taste cheap beer on his tongue; wouldn’t have to let the man call him a slut as Jason took him into his mouth. He wouldn’t have to do any of these things, because there was no one there to want him to. Even he did not want to do these things.

But he did them anyway.

♟♟♟

“The 18th,” Jason said. He leaned against the window of the safe house, watching the clouds push across the sky. Nightwing sat casually on the sofa across from him, one leg crossed over the other. “Or, I think so.”

Nightwing raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I remembered,” he said. “Some deal Ro—_Black Mask _ was talking about. He mentioned something about the docks, on the 18th.”

“Oh.” Nightwing sat up straighter, tilting his head in interest. “Do you think there’s a chance he will go forward with it, now that you’re...missing?”

Jason nodded. “He didn’t always know when I was listening. And it sounded important, a trade, or something.”

Nightwing paused, as if mulling over information in his brain. “The 18th. That’s this Thursday.”

“It is?” Jason asked, not at all needing to ask. The 18th of July; the day James Thomas would have turned twenty-three years old if he had not disappeared with Jason. Maybe James would come back one day. 

(No, no. Of course he would. No way would this mission take two whole years of his life.)

“Yeah,” Nightwing said. “Yeah. It is. Are you okay?”

Jason scoffed. He could not help it. “Why are you people always asking me if I’m okay?”

“Us people?”

“You. Robin. Batman. You people,” he replied, resting his forehead on the cool glass. His breath left splashes of fog across the window. They dissipated quickly. Though he could not see him, he could hear Nightwing stand. “Where are the others, anyway?”

“On patrol.”

“Shouldn’t you be on patrol with them?”

Nightwing laughed, and Jason felt a blush spreading over his face God damn him and his perfect teeth, his perfect laugh. How many times had he blown a guy in the backseat of a car, just because he didn’t know what else to do with himself? Jason guessed that number was less than one.

“Eager to get rid of me?” Nightwing asked.

It took him a moment to put on Fake Jason’s persona. “That’s—that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”

The other man waved him off. “I’m joking, I’m joking. No need to apologize.”

Despite everything, Jason felt that Nightwing was being sincere. His words did not seem prying or sarcastic, but genuine. It reminded him of the time his dad was in a good mood and wanting to hang out with him, they way he would call him _ Jase _and laugh about the silly things. No ulterior motives. Only good will.

With a start, he realized what he was doing, what he was feeling. _ Don’t relax. Don’t give in, _ the voices said. _ Don’t let him get to you. _

“I see,” Jason replied, turning away bashfully as Fake Jason would have. “Why aren’t you on patrol with them?”

The smile fell off of Nightwing’s face, holding on just barely to the corners of his lips. “Ah. Well. That’s simple,” he said. “Patrol is a job for Batman and Robin. I am not Robin, ergo I am not on patrol.”

He wasn’t a horrible liar. Jason had to give him that. But he sure as hell wasn’t a good one. The way his eyes flickered to the ceiling, the slight twitch of his brow...either Nightwing was bullshitting or giving him only a sliver of the truth. Fucking finally, something to work with.

Mind racing, he collected all that he knew. **Fact one:** Nightwing is rumored to have been Robin I. **Fact Two: ** Batman has a new Robin who resembles Nightwing physically. **Fact Three: ** Nightwing has never once shown up alongside Batman and Robin. **Fact Four: **Nightwing hides the nature of his current relationship with the Dynamic Duo. 

**Conclusion:** Nightwing is not on the best terms with the Caped Crusader. This may or may not have to do with the existence of a newer Robin.

Jason tried his best not to smirk. “I guess that makes sense,” he said, choosing his words carefully. _ Gotta make it sting. _“You’re the new guy. You get to stay back and babysit.”

Ha! There it was. The ghost of a frown settled over Nightwing. 

“Who said I’m new?”

“To Gotham, I mean. I know you were with the, uh, Titans, right?” Jason pretend to recall some memory, as if he had not studied every fact and rumor about Batman and his associates, as if he did not know exactly when and where Nightwing showed up in Gotham. “How’d you end up with Batman, anyway?”

Nightwing chuckled coldly. “I’ve known him a while. Longer than most.”

That just about confirmed it.

“Right.” Sighing, Jason peeled himself off of the window and walked over to the kitchen. He tried not to study the other man’s form as he passed him. “Thirsty?” he asked, filling a mug with tap water. His head ached slightly from the night before, not from the alcohol—though he did drink plenty, especially after he stumbled from the back seat of the station wagon—but from his lack of sleep. Sleepless nights were a bitch.

“Got any milk?” 

Suddenly Jason found himself laughing. “You drink milk? What the fuck, man.”

Nightwing shrugged, grinning. “It’s a good source of calcium.”

“What are you smiling like that for?”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.” 

_ Fucking hell_. Jason turned away, his face heating. “I don’t have milk,” he muttered, popping a bottle of Tylenol and shoving a pill down his throat. 

Silence fell over them. It was only slightly awkward, a silence of hesitation rather than of things left unsaid. Jason sipped water, wanting to ask more about Batman but not wanting to push his luck. Nightwing looked around the safe house, probably wanting to talk about _ history _ and _ feelings _ and _ traumas_. Bastard. What, were all the Bats licensed therapists or something? What could know of trauma? Why would they think he had experienced it? Everything he had done, he had consented to. That’s not trauma.

“So,” Nightwing said at last. “Did you enjoy the books?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Well.” Jason sunk into a chair opposite him. “If you really want to know, I think the _ Furioso _ was ahead of its time. A Renaissance _ Princess Bride_, you know? And obviously, Woolf was a genius. I don’t love her as much as Austen, but she’s alright.”

“Austen? Like, _ Pride and Prejudice _?”

“No, like _ Twilight. _ ” Jason rolled his eyes. _ Dumbass. _

Sitting back down, Nightwing spread over the couch, limp like a black and blue cat. “Hey,” he said, “not all of us grew up reading classics.”

_ What _ did _ you grow up doing? _Jason wondered. He pictured some kid not too different from who he once was, except smaller and dumber, chasing rats down the streets until Batman scooped him up and molded him into a baby vigilante. No, he didn’t hold himself like a street kid. He was too relaxed. Maybe it was foster care. Or maybe he had a loving family, a mommy and daddy who tucked him in at night until Penguin or Two Face or whoever blew them up, shot them, burned them, whatever. 

Yeah. That was probably it. Boy Wonder knew what it was to be loved. Until Batman kicked him to the curb and picked up a new protégé, that is.

**NIGHTWING**   
**NAME:** ???  
**AGE:** EARLY TO MID-TWENTIES  
**HEIGHT:** 5’10”  
**HAIR:** BLACK  
**EYES: **VERY, VERY BLUE  
**SMILE:** PERFECT  
**OTHER: **CHATTY. COCKY. HAS HAD A FALLING OUT WITH BATMAN. DRINKS MILK.

“By the way,” Nightwing said, “you never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Are you okay?”

_ Not this again, _he thought. “How do you think I am?” he asked, doing his very best to sound resigned and not heated.

“Honestly?” Nightwing leaned forward, his eyes flickering over Jason’s body. Something in his chest tightened. “I’d say that you’re trying to put on a brave face because it’s what you’re used to. Jason, you were starved. Beaten, nearly to death. You don’t need to do that.”

If Fake Jason were a real pussy, he would have started crying or some shit by now. Luckily, Fake Jason was warming up to the Bats. His personality was returning. He didn’t need to fall apart completely. 

He laughed softly, without humor, swirling the water in his mug as he might swirl a fine wine. “Right. That’s what you really think, huh?”

“I’ve seen some things.”

“So have I. I’ve _ done _ some things. And that’s what hurts. Not—” He motioned to himself, to the dull bruises along his arms and neck. They were nearly gone, little more than pale yellow splotches over his white skin. But that wasn’t what held Nightwing’s attention.

“Shit,” he said, standing suddenly. “You’re bleeding.”

Jason looked down. Drops of blood had appeared along his shoulder, looking like a constellation over his shirt. He had forgotten to put a new bandage over the wound. 

“Let me take a look at it,” Nightwing said. 

“I’m fine. This happens.”

“Batman still keeps the first aid kid in the bathroom cupboard, yeah?”

“Please. I’ll take care of it,” Jason said, thinking, _ fuck off_. 

Nightwing exhaled sharply, an imitation of a laugh. “Buddy, shoulder wounds are killer. Let me wrap it for you. I’ve got some practice.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, then gave a quiet “okay.” It’s what Fake Jason would have done. 

In a moment, Nightwing had returned with a gauze pad and some coban. “You’re going to need to take off your shirt,” he said gently. It made him remember the last night, how the man didn’t ask to tug Jason’s shirt over his head, didn’t ask to shove his hands down Jason’s pants. 

Jason slipped off his top and dropped it on the floor. He watched the vigilante remove his gloves, revealing bronze hands, scarred knuckles. Nightwing opened a packet of disinfectant wipes with his teeth and, kneeling before Jason, wiped down his palms and fingers.

“Can you lean forward?” he asked.

His hands were cold on Jason’s chest, slightly clammy from the disinfectant. Jason flinched as he put the gauze on the cut. But he didn’t say anything. He sat still, letting Nightwing reach around him to wrap the coban around his chest, once, twice. In the silence, he could hear the other man’s soft breaths. He could feel them on his skin, feel the heat from Nightwing’s body when he leaned close to slip the coban under his arm. His heart beat in his mouth. 

Jason had hurt people. He had _ killed _people. How could Nightwing treat him so tenderly, so gently? Didn’t he know? Didn’t they all know? 

“There,” Nightwing said. When he stepped back, the air felt colder, more empty. Jason realized he had stopped breathing.

“Thank you,” he said quickly, hiding the desperate tug of his lungs as he threw on his shirt. 

“Feel better now?”

Jason leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Best not to look the other man in the face. “I’m peachy,” he said. 

“Right,” Nightwing said. “Peachy.”

_ Peachy_. The way he said it, that glamor in his voice. Fuck. What did he know?

He stood quickly. “Look,” he said. “Thank you. Truly. But I think—I should sleep. Let the others know that I’m doing better?” _ If you’re still on speaking terms. _

“I can do that. And about the 18th, too.” 

Right. The 18th. “Be careful,” Jason said. “Black Mask is dangerous.”

Nightwing smiled. “So are we.”

_ Yeah_, Jason thought. _ Yeah. I know. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #dickgraysondrinksmilk
> 
> Those of you caught up on my other fic already know this, but I'll repeat it here: because I have my own shit to write for school, chapter updates will be bi-weekly (once every two weeks) from now on. In the mean time, feel free to read my other Jaybird fic, [Red Is Also A Color](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433530/chapters/48476960%22). They'll be updating on opposite weeks :) 
> 
> Constructive comments (and suggestions) are very welcome! Write away!
> 
> EDIT: Would you like to see chapters from Dick’s POV? I’ve been playing around with the idea but don’t know if I want to commit to it...


	8. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeellll it's Inktober again and I swear, if I could add art I would. But alas, my iPad is ancient and no longer cooperates with me. *shakes fists at sky*
> 
> But I'm better at writing than drawing anyway. So here's a chapter full of action! I'm so sorry for keeping y'all in the safe house for so long. We won't be going back, I promise. And thank you to all of you who said you'd like a Dick POV chapter! It will come soon...it may even be next. We'll see.
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter include:** violence, bad coping mechanisms

Night had fallen over Gotham, but Jason hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights of the safe house. There was something nice about sitting in the dark, in sweats and a tee shirt, drinking wine from a travel mug. Nicer than drinking with the lights on, at least. It made him feel more refined, like a scholar of old passing time out in the countryside. All he needed was a fine suit and a large stone fireplace. 

_We’ll give the Caped Crusader a chance to see you in action_, Roman had said. Five days later, and still nothing. It was almost frustrating, unless...did he misinterpret that statement somehow? Was he supposed to do something?

No, that was stupid. He couldn’t do _ anything_, and Roman had to know that.

_Come on,_ _Roman_, Jason thought. 

After one more swig of wine, he stood, stretching his arms over his head to ease the stiffness of his back. His wrist hardly hurt anymore, even when he did bodywork on the floor of the bedroom. Hell, he could do one-armed push-ups again. _ Can’t open a pickle jar_, Robin said. Fuck Robin.

Walking over to the kitchen, Jason shut the mug and slipped it under the sink, where no nosy Bat would think to open it up and look inside. The clock on the microwave blinked green. He stared at it, waiting for the minute to flip. 11:59. 11:59. 12:00. 

That’s nice. Two days later, and none of the Bats had come to tell him about Roman’s not-operation they may or may not have busted. Just because _ he _knew that it was inconsequential, it didn’t mean he didn’t want to hear about what happened, what they thought about him now that he had given away tangible evidence of Roman’s enterprise. Nothing had appeared on the news, and when he used a tablet to search “Batman” and “Gotham Docks” and “July 18,” nothing had come up. 

Outside, a car screeched down the street. The tail lights washed the room in red. For a moment, Jason thought about his apartment back in East End, the sounds and sights he would hear after the sun set below the horizon. Engines, screams, howls, gunshots, all of it as familiar as the sound of his own breathing. In Roman’s penthouse, his bedroom was scrubbed with silence. He was too far removed from the streets, from anything, really. Sometimes he’d turn on the air conditioning at night, just to hear the noise and feel less alone in the vacuum of his room. 

_ Fuck. _He’s too sober to think about shit like that. But he was running out of alcohol, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to go back out again. 

With a heavy sigh, Jason walked into the bedroom and flipped on the light. It blinded him, but only for a second, and when his vision cleared, he saw that the room was as clean as he left it. He hated messes. Even when he was back at the penthouse, with Bianca to clean up after him, he still felt the need to keep things nice. God knows how many times Roman asked her to clean blood off of his carpets.

He hadn’t once bled on these carpets. Tugging his shirt over his head, Jason stared at his shoulder. Whatever technique Nightwing used to wrap his shoulder, it worked well. The wound was little more than a raw but bloodless scratch. Soon it would be nothing but a scar, one of dozens he’d collected over the years.

Before he could stop himself, he wondered if Nightwing had any scars. The vigilante’s suit was lacking in body armor—for reasons of agility no doubt, since he was rather nimble for a fighter. Surely some grunt or villain or whatever had gotten the upper hand and put a knife through the material. Jason pictured small scars along his ribcage, silver lines on his tanned, olive skin. His scars would probably be beautiful, not at all like the garish red marks that fell over Jason’s chest and back.

Ugh. Why even picture that shit?

Jason ran his hands through his hair before stretching out his shoulders. He was just about to drop into plank position when he heard the unmistakable creak of the floor. Instinctively he whipped around, hands held up in a defensive position. But when he saw who it was, his hands fell.

_ Fucking hell. _These people needed to learn how to knock.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Batman said. He looked smaller in the yellow light of the room, less like a monster and more like a man in a costume. When he moved, Jason could see the scratches and flaws in the body armor. There was dark stubble along his jaw.

“You didn’t startle me,” Jason replied, all too aware of his state of undress. 

“Your wounds are healing nicely.You look healthy.”

Great. Now he was even _ more _aware. Grabbing his shirt, Jason slipped it on quickly, not caring that it pushed his hair down into his face. “I’ve been feeling better,” he said. 

“That’s good to hear.”

Jason waited. _ Just say why you’re here _ , he thought. _ Drop the mysterious act, for fucks sake. _

After a moment, Batman sighed. “You gave us good information. Thank you.”

_ Gag. _It probably made him feel good, using manners like Mommy taught him. 

“Did you find anything?” Jason asked, not actually caring about the answer. But it was important for him to ask. He was supposed to ask.

“Unfortunately, no. It was a low-level exchange. Cocaine. Know anything about that?”

He had only done cocaine a handful of times—he wasn’t not a huge fan of the whole powder thing—and all of it was crap he’d bought of the idiotic sons of millionaires. Roman didn’t sling that shit. 

“Nothing.”

“Hmm.”

Offering a shy smile, Jason said, “Maybe if I could come with you—”

“I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

_ Fuck that_. 

Jason opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, suddenly aware of the silence on the streets. No cars. No shouts. Nothing. 

There was a stillness as well, a listlessness in the air as if time itself had stopped. He recognized it from the times when rival gang members thought, stupidly, that they could get the jump on him. That static moment before everything goes to shit.

Batman must have sensed it too. At once he turned to Jason and said, firmly and without fear. “Get down.”

And then the lights went out. Typical.

Jason could hear Batman move away but held his ground, waiting alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of his own breath. He knew, logically, that no one had yet entered the apartment. There was no crash of shattering glass, no sharp snap of wood splintering. And he knew from experience that Roman’s men would shoot out the windows first. They came in hot, as Cade would say. Silence was for capes and cowards. No one else could have that luxury.

A second passed. He waited, walking through the motions in his head. Disorient. Disarm. Disable. Normally he would end with a shot to the temple or a knife across the throat, but those things were no longer an option. Batman could not see him kill. He was a good and reformed but dangerous little boy. 

Another second. He breathed in, breathed out. _ Come on, guys, _he thought, bouncing on the balls of his feet. How long had it been since he landed a good punch? How long since he heard the crunch of bones beneath his knuckles?

There was a sudden cacophony of noise. Gunfire, blowing out the living room windows. His pulse spiked. His ears rang. Through the chaos he could hear people shouting, furniture breaking. A body hit the floor. Another.

Shit. Batman was fast. He had to move.

At full speed he charged from the bedroom, driving his shoulder into the first dark form that stepped in front of him. The man’s grunt was cut short as Jason’s elbow slammed into his throat. Jason hit him again. Once, twice. The man fell like a sack of rocks.

God, Jason missed this.

Thick arms wrapped around his torso. _ Please _ . Jason threw his head into the person’s nose. It landed with a sickening _ crunch_. The person’s grip loosened, giving him the chance he needed to slip out and slam their head against the wall. Though he could not see it, Jason could feel the hot blood exploding from his face. Some landed on his hands, in his mouth. 

He didn’t have time to process it before someone took a swing at him. Something sharp sliced across his arm, stinging. Jason hissed and jumped backward. The knife cut the air where he had stood. 

That was when his instincts took over:

Duck. Punch. Block incoming knife. Break wrist. Stab in chest—no, the leg. (No killing, remember?) Let man fall to the floor. Finish with a kick to the temple. See someone aiming a gun at your chest. Grab that thing to your left—a teapot? a pitcher?—and hurl into face. When he falls, go for the gun. No. Don’t go for the gun. Kick it away. Then kick him until he is still.

It was all so very easy.

Across the room, he could hear Batman’s soft grunts as he fought off four men on his own. Despite the darkness of the room he saw someone raise a rifle, saw the long black form silhouetted against the blue light coming from the windows. A dark emotion filled him. Fear? No, _ anger_. It was his job, his _ right _to kill Batman. If some idiot got to it before he does, then what had any of this been for? 

With a snarl, Jason launched himself forward. A solid object broke his fall. The room flashed white; the rifle exploded in his ear. 

“You!” the man hissed, when he saw who it was above him. He threw a punch. Jason blocked it easily. Wrong move. The man’s other hand, knuckles white and heavy, knocked him across the face. He stumbled backwards. The taste of blood filled his mouth. 

“Jason!” Batman growled. 

_ No_. He couldn’t let the Dark Knight see him like this. He was better than this. 

Jason caught the man’s hand before he could strike him again. He squeezed; the bones snapped. Instincts told him to keep going, that a broken hand does not a conquered enemy make. 

In a quick motion, he threw his good shoulder into the man’s gut, driving him back into a bookshelf. The man grunted as his head splintered the wood. Then Jason punched him, and his skull broke the shelf completely. Jason punched him again. When the man drew a knife, clumsily, Jason ripped it from his grasp and held it to his throat. 

_ Hold back_, the voices reminded him.

Jason did not move the knife.

“What’s the matter?” the man asked, his voice rich with venom. “Did the capes make you soft?”

In a fluid motion, Jason slammed the man into the remains of the shelf and let him fall to the floor. The man groaned once, then went limp.

“Fuck you,” he hissed, letting the knife fall from his hands.

At once he realized he could hear nothing but a sharp ringing, the memory of the explosive shot from the rifle. There was no more struggling, no more movement, no more _ crack _ of armor against flesh.

“Put down the knife, Jason,” Batman said softly from behind his shoulder. 

Jason looked down. He could barely make out the shape of the blade in his hand, but he could tell from the glint that it was clean. No blood had been spilt.

“Put down the knife,” Batman said again.

Slowly, he lay the knife down on the closest surface he could find. “I’m sorry,” he said, wishing he could say something else, _ anything _but those two words. “I couldn’t stay back.”

“Are you hurt?”

Jason could still taste the sharp tang of copper in his mouth. His arm was bleeding, but the cut was short and shallow. “No,” he replied.

“There is a flashlight in the drawer next to the fridge. Can you reach it?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful. There is broken glass.”

For the first time, Jason realized he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Huh. Maybe he was drunker than he thought, because his feet didn’t hurt. “Right,” he said, wiping the blood around his mouth. He toed over the floor, avoiding bodies and weapons and glass like a macabre obstacle course. Behind him, he could hear Batman muttering into the com. He caught only bits and pieces:

“Alert the Commissioner...ambushed by eight men...not safe...will send you the rendezvous point. Batman out.”

The flashlight was heavy, practically a club. Jason turned it on and pointed it at the ceiling, lighting the room in a dim yellow glow. “What now?” he asked.

“Search them,” Batman said. “They may be carrying communication devices. Orders. Documents of some kind. We need to work quickly.”

_ We_. Jason did not miss that. But he could not risk a smile. 

At once he did as the man asked, kneeling from body to body like a good little soldier. He knew that Roman would never be so careless as to leave hints of his involvement, let alone a paper trail, but he also hoped—well, if Roman needed to get something to him...

Armed with the light, Jason could see that only one of the men wore a mask, the first one he had knocked down. That had to mean something. It was like the study of literature: the conspicuous details were the ones to take into account. As Batman scanned the faces of the men in the living area—some kind of facial recognition software, no doubt linked to a vast archive—Jason made his way over to the first man, who was groaned softly, not yet fully conscious. 

In a pocket of his tactical vest there was a phone. Cheap, old, no doubt a burner. On the back there was a label: **PROPERTY OF JIM T**. 

Jim T. James Thomas. Nice.

When he was sure Bats wasn’t looking, he slipped the phone in the waistband of his sweats and tugged his shirt over it. The hiding place would do for now. Once he put shoes on, he could hide it in his boot.

Standing, he looked over to Batman. “Nothing. Just gear.”

“Is it high quality?” the man asked.

_ Why is he asking that? _“No,” Jason replied. “Looks like the shit you buy in a back alley.”

“So there’s no need to check for Black Mask’s fingerprints. Leave it.”

“Roger that.”

Batman put away whatever device he had been using to scan faces. “Grab your things,” he said. “The police will be here soon. We need to leave.”

There they were in agreement. Jason could count on one hand the things he’d like less than to meet a cop. It was just another sign of how far removed Batman was from reality. Cops didn’t help people: they beat them or jailed them or dragged them around for fun. If he _ really _ wanted to help, and didn’t just have a hero complex, he’d take them out one by one, starting with that fucking _ Commissioner. _

He was lacing his boots when a thought struck him. “My fingerprints,” he said suddenly. “This place—they’re going to be—”

“The police won’t find anything,” Batman said coolly. His face was hard as rock. “Your fingerprints don’t have a match. And I’ll have Oracle make sure they don’t end up in a database.”

_ Right _ , Jason remembered. _ Like Robin said. I’m legally dead_.

Somewhere beyond the walls of the safe house, a series of sirens howled into the night. They grew closer with each passing second. Jason stood and grabbed a bag with his clothes, letting the phone fall discreetly from his hip and into the bag’s open mouth.

“Ready,” he said.

“Good. Move.”

He followed Batman out a broken window and onto the fire escape. Below them, blue and red lit up the night. Shards of glass crunched beneath his feet, but the man moved silently as smoke. Batman had a few inches on him, and maybe twenty pounds or so, all of it muscle. _ Fuck _, he looked every bit as dangerous as he was. 

Back there, Jason had hardly seen him fight. In the alleyway, he had only heard him fight. Despite all the hero shit and stupid costume, maybe he truly was a formidable opponent. Roman was right to send Jason in this way. 

Of course he was. 

♟♟♟

The Bat and his sidekicks were arguing. Jason hung in the upper catwalks of the warehouse, pretending not to listen. The cut on his arm began to itch. He stared at it, frowning, as if to scare it into behaving.

It would be an understatement to say that it had been a long night. After getting out of the safe house, Batman took him in the Batmobile (the fucking _ Batmobile! _) to this crummy little warehouse in Old Gotham, grunting one word orders like a troglodytic caveman. Sit. Stay. Food. Eat. Now. There wasn’t a bed in the warehouse, so Jason slept in a swivel chair, beneath a thin blanket. 

_ I’m used to sleeping on the floor_, he told Batman, just to elicit an emotional response. _ Did it all the time when I was a kid._

“He can’t stay here,” Robin was saying, his voice less hushed than he probably intended it to be. Jason wondered if his words were meant to carry concern or suspicion. 

“We can’t send him back either, can we?” Nightwing replied.

“I wasn’t suggesting that.”

“What were you suggesting, then?”

God, it was weird seeing the two of them together. Jason wondered what Nightwing thought of the kid. Did he love him like a brother, or see him as a rival? Or a replacement, perhaps?

“We should put him in witness protection,” Robin said. “Get him out of Gotham. Out of the state.”

Nightwing shook his head. “You know as well as I do that we can’t do that. Black Mask clearly has the resources to track him.”

“Enough,” Batman said, and Jason could practically see the idiots shut up and stand straight. “Robin, check up on the police reports from last night. See if any of the men have talked.”

Robin muttered something Jason could not hear. In a moment he was walking out of the warehouse, disappearing from sight. Jason pressed his back into the railing of the catwalk, as if the extra inch between him and the Bats would make eavesdropping easier. The material cooled him through the fabric of his shirt, just as the perforated metal beneath him took the feeling from his legs. How long had he been sitting here? Too long, that was for sure. 

What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette or some oxy. 

“What?” Nightwing said curtly. 

Jason looked over his shoulder to see the vigilante standing with his arms crossed, lips pursed like a petulant child’s. _ Huh. _ This was not the reaction of a pissed-off pupil; their dynamic was almost familial. Maybe, Jason realized, he had been thinking about it all wrong. Maybe Batman saw the Birds as more than assistants. Maybe he really did believe his own lies, and took them in as his own children. That would explain the way he looked at Jason, the way he lay his hand so gently over his shoulder—

Something tightened in his chest. Jason ignored it. _ It’s disgusting, _ he reminded himself, _ He’s only pretending to care _ . _ Deep down, he thinks you’re shit just like everyone else _.

What he needed to do was retrieve the cell phone he had taken off one of the men. It was hidden inside a broken pipe, far away from where he slept just in case Robin got a little nosy and started snooping. As soon as all the Bats were gone, he’d grab it and let Roman know what was going on. _ Moved to a warehouse in Old Gotham. Making progress _. 

Down below, Batman handed something to Nightwing, maybe a piece of fabric. “I could use your help,” he said, “with all of this.”

“As a partner?”

“Yes.”

Nightwing shrugged casually. Then a wide smile broke his face. “You’ve got my attention, B.”

Batman nodded his head toward something Jason could not see. “Set up the mat. He’ll be down here in a second.”

“You’re gonna go grab him?”

“There’s no need,” the man replied, and looked directly at where Jason was sitting. 

_ Shit_. He scrambled to his feet as heat spread across his face. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly, instinctively, before he realized what had passed his lips.

Nightwing looked toward Jason, frowned, then turned his gaze back to Batman. “See you in a bit,” he said, and disappeared.

_ Don’t go_.

“Jason,” Batman said. 

That was all he had to say. Jason hurried across the catwalk and down the stairs, heart thumping in his mouth. As he moved, he glanced toward the man, noting how he stood in the shadow even as the windows of the warehouse let the sun wash through the place. But despite the dark and the cowl, Jason could see that his brow was furrowed.

Fuck. He was so _ fucking stupid _for intruding on their conversation. The man would have every right to beat him, whip him, break his bones. Before he could stop himself, Jason thought about the man in the bed of room 513. At least Batman wouldn’t hurt his face like that. Bats preferred pretty birds.

But he could take it. He _ had _to take it. For the mission.

When he stood before Batman, he kept his eyes aimed at the ground. Batman moved. He flinched. But nothing happened. 

“Did you get enough sleep?” Batman asked.

Caught off-guard, Jason struggled to find the words. “What? Um. Yes? I mean, yes.”

The man stared at him, his gaze penetrating but not unkind. “Did something frighten you?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He looked at Jason a second longer, then continued. “I saw what you did back at the safe house. What you can do.”

Jason bit his tongue, waiting. All thoughts of punishment fled his mind, replaced with a single word: _ maybe, maybe, maybe _…

“You think you can help us take down Black Mask?”

Now would be the time to start talking again. “Yes,” he said. “I know the—the _ bastard _ better than anyone.”

Batman nodded once. “If you hurt yourself or others, we will take you off the case. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jason.” 

And there it was. That stupid shoulder touch. His blood began to boil. 

“You don’t need to call me _ sir_,” Batman said. “Not now. Not ever. Understand?”

He nodded. 

“Good. Let’s get started.” The man motioned to the other side of the warehouse, where Nightwing stood in the middle of what looked like a boxing ring. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Nightwing said when they approached. He put something in Jason’s hands. Sparring gloves. 

Jason looked at the gloves, then at the others with him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, sliding the gloves over his hands.

Nightwing grinned. ‘Take a stance.”

It was almost instinctual. Feet staggered. Knees bent. Right elbow in. Left arm in front. Chin down. No matter how much he wanted to look at Batman, wanted to evaluate his expression, he did not look away from the man in front of him. That would be bad form; a mistake.

“What’s the goal here?” he asked.

“Knock me down,” the other man replied, and sent a kick flying toward his head.

Jason grunted as he blocked the kick, only to be caught off-guard by one of those stupid escrima sticks. He ducked and countered with a punch. The other man bobbed beneath his fist. _ Roundhouse, parry, jab, hook, sidekick, one two one two one two. _

God damn, he was fast. And his technique...Jason tried to pin down which style of martial arts—_ punch, duck, front kick _—but none came to mind. It was almost as if the vigilante combined them all into a violent dance.

But he was small. At least three inches shorter, and maybe thirty pounds lighter.

Jason let out a controlled breath as he grabbed Nightwing’s wrist and drove his elbow into the other man’s shoulder. Nightwing may have had speed and agility, but he had brute strength. As the man stumbled, Cade’s voice rang in his head. _ Don’t let him recover _. 

Too late. A foot slammed into his legs, knocking him off-balance. Pain flared up his left calf. Jason hissed as he caught himself, eyes fixed on Nightwing’s every move. 

“Come on,” Nightwing said. “Don’t hold back.”

With a snarl, Jason lunged forward, catching him around the waist. He could feel Nightwing strike him—once, twice—but he did not let go. He hooked his leg around the other man’s and jerked back. Falling, falling. His head crashed into the mat. Nightwing fell beside him.

_ Don’t let him recover _.

He grappled for control, twisting and wrestling as air caught in his lungs. Jab. Elbow. Block. Cross. One second, he was dominant. The next, Nightwing. Back and forth, back and forth. In the distance, Batman observed, silent. 

Nightwing was slower on the ground. His hits were weaker. _ Remember this, _ Jason told himself, shielding his face from a blow. _ Bide your time for an opening_. 

Cross. Block. _ There it is_.

He drove his knee into Nightwing’s gut. The man grunted and faltered. That was all he needed. Jason dove forward and wrapped his arm around the vigilante’s neck, tightening his grip every time he flailed or writhed.

_ You could kill him _ , the voices said. _ Right here. Right now_. _ Just break his neck._

They were right; it would be no harder than snapping a twig under his heel. And surely the shock would stun Batman, render him imobile, and Jason would have the opening he needed to take him down. Take an escrima stick and shove it through his skull. 

Jason felt his muscles constrict. Nightwing gasped. 

_ Kill him_.

Suddenly a sharp pain pierced his side, numbing everything from his chest to the tips of his fingers. Jason grit his teeth but could move nothing, say nothing. His grip loosened; Nightwing slipped out, rolling a taser between his fingers.

The voices hissed. _ You hesitated_, _ you piece of shit. _

“Not...fair…” Jason groaned between his teeth, scowling

Nightwing grinned, and how he _ burned _to wipe that smile off that perfect face. “Who said we were playing fair?” he asked, slipping the taser back into his belt. “The feeling will wear off in a second, by the way. Just give it a moment.”

He was right. Slowly the paralyzing effect slipped away, leaving nothing but a bright ache beneath his ribs. Jason climbed to his feet and glanced toward Batman. His face was impassive; unreadable.

“You’re too focused on drawing conclusions,” the man said, after a moment. “The facts can change at any moment.”

_ Pot meet kettle _, Jason thought bitterly. Like the man didn’t judge every criminal he met. 

“You hit hard. I’ll give you that,” Nightwing added. He rolled his shoulders and sighed, bringing his arms back into a fighting position. “Ready to go again?”

Jason mirrored his stance. “Are you going to taze me again?”

“Depends. Will you try to choke me again?”

“I don’t know. Will you let me?” 

Nightwing didn’t respond. Instead, he drove an escrima stick into Jason’s stomach. And so it began again. 

After five minutes, beads of sweat began to form on his brow. His breath hitched with every blow and every strike of his own. He was just about to perform a kick, knees bent, arms in, when a hand wraps around his collar and yanked him to the floor. His back slammed into the mat; the air left his lungs. 

Batman stood over him, his body still primed for combat. “You’re too focused on your opponent,” he said. “Let your senses be attuned to the environment.”

Jason cursed himself as he stood. How many times had Cade thrown him to the floor and barked those words? He knew that. He _ knew _that. God, he was so fucking stupid. The Bats were so fucking insufferable.

Still, he forced himself to speak. “Understood,” he said. “Don’t draw conclusions. Watch my environment. Anything else?”

“No. That’s all for now. Take a break.”

_ What? _“A break? We’ve been fighting for fifteen minutes.”

Slowly, Batman shook his head. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he said. “I will come back to check on you after.”

“Where—” Jason began, but the man was already walking away. He watched his cape billow and twist behind him like smoke, until he entered a shadow and disappeared.

_ What the fuck are they playing at? _

A hand patted him on the back. Nightwing. At once Jason jerked away from his touch, glaring. 

“It’s just a break,” the vigilante said. If he was startled by Jason’s reaction, he hid it well. “Drink water. Sit down. You know.”

“I don’t need to stop.”

“No, you don’t _ want _to stop. Come on,” Nightwing urged, walking toward a bench along the brick wall of the warehouse. 

Sighing, Jason followed. It was what Fake Jason would do. Fake Jason was a good listener, a good pupil, a good sidekick.

Jason decided that he hated Fake Jason. 

“Here.” Nightwing handed him a water bottle and sat down, motioning for Jason to do the same. 

“Thank you.”

Nightwing looked at him. His hair had gotten messier in the last fifteen minutes, and was now spilling over his face, creating a curtain between his eyes and Jason’s. Good. The less time Jason had to look into them, the better.

“Did he not give you breaks?” Nightwing asked suddenly.

Jason frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Black Mask. How did he train you?”

“It was just training.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

Jason took a sip of water. The water wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t not lukewarm either. It chilled his throat as he swallowed. “I ran. Lifted weights. Sparred. What do you want to hear?”

Nightwing said his name, and it stirred something warm and snug inside him. 

“What?” he said sharply, swallowing the feeling.

“This man, we _ know _ what kind of person he is. _ You _know what kind of person he is.”

“So?”

“So we both know it wasn’t _ just _training.”

Jason stared down the mouth of the water bottle, watching the water lap at the plastic. He thought about Fake Jason, how he’d probably start crying about Cade and broken bones and blood dripping from his mouth. Blah, blah, blah. 

Instead he said nothing. Let his silence speak for itself.

There was a long pause. Then Nightwing said, “Alright. What should we talk about, then? Books? Food? The weather?”

“We should get back to sparring.”

“You really don’t like breaks, huh?”

“Not really, no.”

Nightwing laughed. “Noted.”

“Look,” Jason said, standing. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anyone’s pity. Whatever you throw at me, I can take.”

“If you say so.”

Heat flared inside him, burning his cheeks and his chest. “Didn’t you hear about me?” he asked, too roughly. But he’d started now, and the words kept coming, louder and harder like a bitter flood he couldn’t control. “I grew up on the streets. I found my mother’s dead body. I spent  _ seven years  _ with the criminal kingpin of Gotham, getting beat up and cursed at and dragged through Gotham, and you Bats think I need a fucking break? Fuck. You.”

Silence. His palms burned, and he realized he’d dug his nails into the soft flesh. When he unclenched his fists, he left little red crescents along his skin.

Nightwing looked as if he were staring at a dead man walking. Brow tense. Jaw tense. Fists clenched at his side.  _ Say something. Do something, _ Jason urged. He needed the man to hit him, to knock him to the floor and tell him how ingrateful he was. He needed Nightwing to give him a reason to hate the Bats even more.  _ Come on. Please _ . 

Finally, Nightwing stood. Jason braced himself for a blow, gritting his teeth and relaxing his shoulders. But Nightwing did nothing. He only stood there. 

“You have every right to be angry,” he said slowly. With intention. Like he was trying not to shout. “But you have to remember whose side you’re on.”

“Thanks. I almost forgot, for a moment,” Jason spat.  _ Why won’t he hit me?  _

“Fuck. I’m not  _ trying _ to upset you. Just---” He ran a hand through his hair and let out a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, okay? Moving on.”

He’s sorry? He’s _ sorry? _ Jason turned away so Nightwing wouldn’t see the frustration on his face, digging his fingers into the cut on his arm just to feel _ something _. Why is he being nice to him? They’re not supposed to be nice to him!

Behind him, Nightwing sighed. “Do you...do you want to get back to sparring?” he asked softly.

_ Fucking finally_. “Yeah,” Jason said, not bothering to turn around. “Let’s do that.”

After, when both their bodies were littered with bruises, he was left alone in the shadows of the warehouse, aching beautifully. Nightwing had gone to speak with Batman about where to put him, what to feed him, blah blah blah, like he was a fucking puppy. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of the man’s blue eyes piercing his skin, the disquiet in his gut when Nightwing laughed, or grinned, or told him he fought well. Which was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. Of course he fought well—he didn’t need some stupid vigilante to affirm what he already knew. 

A bead of sweat dripped into his eye, stinging. Jason blinked it away.

_ God. _It would be so much easier if they were as contemptible to him as they were on the streets. 

“Jason,” someone said. 

He looked up. Nightwing had appeared in front of him, smiling kindly. Jason was able to muster up a greeting before forcing his eyes back toward the floor.

“You want me to get you something to eat?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you sure? I could pick us up some takeout.”

Jason snorted. “Dressed like that?”

“I’m not always dressed like this,” Nightwing replied, as if Jason weren’t acutely, painfully aware that there was a person under the mask. A beautiful, chatty, annoying son of a bitch.

_ Let him go_, the voices said. _ And you’ll be alone_.

“Alright,” Jason said. Then: “Leave a tip.”

Nightwing grinned. “Always,” he said, and then he was gone.

Jason waited for a minute. Two minutes. When no one came, he walked—casually, as if caught up in the cracked mortar of the walls and the dusty skylights overhead—over to the loose pipe where he had stored the phone. 

_ I’m fine. Moved to Old Gotham. Making progress_, he wrote. Then he deleted the first part. Roman wouldn’t care about that, and Jason shouldn’t care about that. If he wanted to talk _ feelings_, he should have gone up to one of the Bats and used a buzzword like “trauma” or “victim” or “addict.”

He could picture the conversation now:

Batman or Robin or Nightwing or whoever would furrow their brow. Touch his shoulder. Tell him they’re sorry, and explain to him that these things that have happened are _ sad _ and _ traumatic _ and that his feelings are _ valid_. No one should be abused like this, they would say, ignorant of the fact that Jason has been made stronger because of them, ignorant of the abuses they inflict upon Gotham. 

Jason was not a victim. He was a weapon, and a weapon is made sharp through the violence of a whetting stone. 

As he slipped the phone back into its hiding place, a new voice found its way into his head. This one was softer, gentler, almost like his own. It only asked one question, but it was enough to make him pause.

_ And what if you’re wrong? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *skeksis voice* mmmmMMMMmmmm
> 
> What do you want to see? Who do you want to meet? 
> 
> LET ME GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT.


	9. Grayson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Y'all asked for a Dick POV chapter, so... Please forgive me. I have edited it to make it better, but I'm still not 100% comfortable with his character.
> 
> Anyway... Jaydick bonding time! Here's a nice, chill chapter to fill the void between two action-heavy ones. And because some people might be wondering about ages:
> 
> **Jason:** Like, one week away from 21  
**Dick:** 24  
**Tim:** 16
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: ???? None ???? _

It was a rare night. The Batcave was never so quiet at this hour, when the streets of Gotham were usually overrun by whatever villains had escaped from Blackgate, or Arkham. Usually the computers would _ ding _with nonstop messages from Oracle, about muggings or assaults or robberies, and yet there were none. Dick would have been on edge, but for once he allowed himself to be grateful for the break. Training with Jason had become more exhausting than he would like to admit—physically, mentally, both.

“He’s doing well,” Dick said. “In case you were wondering.”

Bruce did not look up from his computer. On the screen, a 3-D image of a weapon rotated slowly, some projectile explosive by the looks of it. “Elaborate.”

_ How eloquent_. “His training is pretty extensive. He picks up drills easily, and has no problem adapting to different weapons. Seems to enjoy training, too.”

“And his mental state?”

“He’s become more...” Dick searched for the right word. “..._agreeable._”

It wasn’t a lie. Jason no longer complained about the little moments of self-care, about breaks or stretching or even small conversation. Over the past two weeks, Dick had learned that the young man was very neat, read like a student of literature, and was far smarter than he wanted anyone to know. Jason liked the color red. Hated chihuahuas. Loved the smell of fresh rain on pavement. 

_ It’s called petrichor_, he said. _ If you want to be an ass about it. _ And then he smiled. Dick liked it when he smiled, that palpable sign of humor, of well-being.

“That’s good to hear,” Bruce said, turning at last away from the computer. “But you’re holding back. What is it?”

“What is what?”

“Don’t play coy, Dick.”

_God damn detective_, he thought bitterly. Of course Bruce would know that there was more to it. How could there not be? They could only guess the hell Jason had been dragged through. Though he hid it well, Jason still flinched when either of them moved to touch him. Flinched, unless he was being hit. Jason knew how to be hit. Even when Dick had nearly cracked one of his ribs during training—accidentally, the result of poor communication—and left a bruise the size of a postcard, Jason shrugged it off, scowling as always. 

“He doesn’t trust us,” Dick said. “And I still don’t know if—”

“—if we can trust him.”

He nodded slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Jason is keeping things from me. He gets oddly quiet sometimes. Not like that,” he added, noting Bruce’s pointed stare. “He’s not shutting down. It’s more like..._avoidance_.”

Bruce leaned over the desk, supporting himself on his elbows. “We can’t rule out that it is a symptom of trauma.”

“Maybe.”

Both of them fell silent. The air between them hung heavy, pressing down on shoulders. Dick thought about the things he could say, the quips he could make even if Bruce would see right through them. _ Beats training a circus brat, eh, Bruce? _ or _ At least we’re back on the same page, yeah? _But that didn’t feel right. He could tell from the look on Bruce’s face that the man was thinking, that he wanted to speak, and Dick had a sinking suspicion that their worries were the same. 

The facts were these:

Dick meets an angry young man at a gala, one that doesn’t seem to care that Roman Sionis has a dangerous reputation. Later, this same young man shows up in Batman’s patrol zone, beaten nearly to death and so terrified that he can hardly speak. The men who beat him are found dead in their jail cells before anyone can interrogate them. After recovering, the terrified young man freely gives away information, the date of a shipment, the location of a safe house, despite knowing that a crime lord wants him dead. None of this information actually produces proof that Roman Sionis is the crime lord known as Black Mask. The young man insists that he must be let into Batman’s operation in order to do good. He does not accept ‘no’ for an answer. He no longer appears terrified, but rather sullen and angry. He shows no real interest in improving his mental health. All this, _ after _ he admitted that he set out to kill Batman. 

Dick wanted to believe Jason. And he knew that Bruce did too. When they spoke of Jason, there was that look of pity in his mentor’s eyes, that penetrating kindness that Dick knew all too well. It was the same look he had seen on one Mr. Wayne when he comforted a lost boy that night at Haly’s Circus, all those years ago. 

If only things had stayed that way.

“One chance,” Bruce said at last. “Bring him on patrol. Be on guard, but appear careless.”

“A test,” Dick replied.

“Exactly.”

_ Well. _ One of them should pose the question. Might as well be him. “And if he’s telling the truth?”

“Do you think he can fight without hurting himself?” The unsaid lingered: _ or others_.

Dick nodded. Jason had plenty of chances to hurt him, even maim him, during training, but he hardly left more than bruises. He wanted to believe that it was because the young man did not want to hurt him, but Dick could not help but think, _ if he kills me, he’ll never get the chance with Bruce. _

“He’s been trained well,” he said. “His style is a little crude, but hey. We can’t all be trained by master martial artists, yeah?”

Bruce didn’t even crack a smile. _ Come on, _Dick thought. Superman smiled. Shazam smiled. Hell, even Wonder Woman smiled. But everything had to be grave and humorless with Bruce. He didn’t even comment on Dick’s new Hawaiian shirt, with its five clashing patterns and color schemes. Dick thought it would have made things easier. Give them a way to fall back into each other's rhythms, open them up before they closed down for the case. But it didn't work. Of course it didn't.

“I trained _ you_,” Bruce said. “And you were still shot.”

_ Not this again. _“Come on,” Dick said in an angry whisper, running a hand through his hair. It had been the better half of a decade since he dreamt about the smell of gunpowder and psychotic laughter, let alone felt the sting of the bullet. And yet… Another failure. Another goddamn failure Bruce would never let him live down. And that was almost worse.

But this time Bruce didn’t seem interested in dragging up the argument again. He turned back to his computer, and studied the screen, eyes narrowed. “Oracle,” he said.

Babs’ voice spilled from the speakers. “Here.”

“Any news on tomorrow’s weapons shipment?”

“According to my readings, it seems to be on track. Should arrive at about 0300.”

“Send updates as soon as you find them,” Bruce said. “Batman out.”

Dick watched him shut off the com link. “You know we’re alone, right? In the cave? You don’t need to call yourself Batman.”

Bruce’s face was impassive. “Suit up,” he said. “Meet me at the docks at 0200. Bring Jason.”

“In what?”

“Elaborate.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Bruce, I’m not going to bring him in sweats and a tee shirt.”

“Give him some of your old gear.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure _ that _will fit.”

Bruce let out a sigh. “Dick...” 

“Alright, alright.” Dick snapped, thinking _ I’m just trying to lighten the mood. _ But that wasn’t allowed, was it? “I’ll find something.”

Bruce flipped the cowl over his head and nodded once before heading off to the Batmobile. Dick watched him go, feeling something simmering beneath his skin. What it was, he could not say. But it was there. And it lingered. 

Once Bruce was gone, Dick looked around for items of use, a suit, weapons. Jason was taller than him, and broader, but not quite as large as Bruce. Perhaps some older gear would work? Nothing too flashy—though Dick had to admit, the sight of Jason in tight, flamboyant gear would be hilarious. Priceless, even. He could only imagine the expression on his face: that resentful scowl, the tense curve of his mouth. Man, he would absolutely _ despise _Dick’s old clothes.

Picking up some of Bruce’s old body armor, he held it up against his chest to visualize whether or not it would fit Jason. Good enough. It might be a bit too wide, but it was better than nothing. At least the arm guards and leg armor would be a better fit—well, maybe not the leg armor. His thighs were practically as big as Kori’s, and that was saying something.

_ What the hell Dick. Stop it. _

Right. The mission. He grabbed what he needed and headed up into the manor, popping by Tim’s room before leaving.

“Is this about the weapons shipment?” Tim asked. His features were highlighted from the light of his computer screen, all blue and angular.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, Timbo?”

Tim sent him a look: _ really, dude? _ “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said, looking him over. His eyes narrowed when he saw the body armor.”The gear’s for _ him_, isn’t it.”

“I’ve got the old man’s permission, officer. I promise.”

“Please. I’m a detective, not a cop,” Tim said, smiling. Then, his smile fell. “You’re not taking him with you, are you?”

“Aww. You worried for me, Timmy Old Boy?”

Tim turned his computer toward Dick, showing him a screen filled with text he could not read from such a distance. It appeared to be police reports, news articles, and the like. “Did you read the stuff I sent you?” he asked. “This guy’s background is full of red flags. And look, I know, I _ know _ that he’s been through a lot—I can’t even _ imagine _ —but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. He said it himself: _ I’ve killed people_.”

Dick did his best not to snort at Tim’s impression of Jason. Maybe in time the kid’s voice would deepen, but at fifteen, it still cracked when he spoke too loudly. “Isn’t your buddy Kon some clone that Lex Luthor cooked up?”

Tim stiffened. “He’s a good friend and ally.”

“And Jason doesn’t deserve a chance to be either?”

“I’m not saying that. I just want you to be careful until...” He paused to shrug. “...until we know for sure.”

Dick sighed. “I will, Tim.”

“Kick some criminal ass, Dick.”

“Will do.” Dick gave him a mock salute. “Give Alfred my best.”

“Always,” Tim said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard of his computer.

With a sigh, Dick headed out, clutching the gear against his chest. When he got to his car, he threw it in the back as he slid into the front seat. Jason would feel more comfortable if it looked worn and crumpled. Like being the second person to drink from a goblet. It’s probably not poisoned if the other person is still standing.

Besides, for someone so tidy, Jason sure liked old clothes. He’d never once worn the shirts Dick had picked out for him. Shame. He would look so good in a suit. 

The car engine sputtered to life, disturbing the somber gardens of Wayne manor. Good thing Bruce wasn’t around to hear that. He’d probably give Dick another talk about the dangers of outdated vehicles, or maybe offer to buy him something newer, something sleek and black because the Dark Knight can’t have colors, oh no no no. 

The wheels still turned. His car was fine. 

Dick pulled in front of an old apartment complex a little after two in the morning. Bruce wanted to move Jason to another safe house, but Tim had insisted that they find him someplace new. Someplace that, if attacked, wouldn’t result in the loss of a hideout. So they rented a space in Pointe Apartments in Old Gotham, only two blocks from the training warehouse. Pointe Apartment was a small building, three stories of units filled with elderly couples and tiny, yapping dogs. Drove Jason crazy. Every time he arrived in the warehouse with dark circles under his eyes, he’d grumble about the _ fucking rats _that woke him up. 

Part of him believed that Jason hated the dogs. But another part, a deeper part, didn’t believe that they were the cause of his exhaustion.

Sometimes he thought about the young man he met at the gala. The one that spat out curt replies and hardly made eye contact. How long ago was that, now? Six weeks? 

“Get a calendar, dumbass,” Dick muttered to himself, placing his domino mask over his eyes. Sure, Jason was probably asleep at this hour, but on the off-chance he wasn’t... It probably wasn’t the _ greatest _idea to start talking identities. Just in case.

As he slipped through the window of the apartment, he suddenly found himself grateful for the mask. Not two feet away from him, Jason was curled up on the couch, asleep. His hair spread like a halo around his head; his full lips were parted slightly. Even while sleeping, Dick had to admit that Jason was a handsome young man. Maybe he was even more handsome asleep. That jockish air about him felt less abrasive, and without a scowl he looked younger, warmer. Dick could even make out a light spattering of freckles across his nose.

It made him remember the way Jason looked when he smiled: the light behind his teal eyes, the fleeting curvature of his mouth. His gut tightened at the memory, and his face flooded with warmth. Maybe one day, his smile would be less ephemeral. Maybe he would shed that cold exterior like a snake sheds its skin, and Jason would emerge, bright and shining. 

_Drop the gear and get back to work_. 

Dick stepped forward; the floor creaked. Jason stirred.

Shit. Dick froze in place and waited. One moment. Two moments. When Jason did not move, he released the air he held inside his lungs—slowly, so not to make noise.

Why couldn’t he sleep in a bed? The bedroom was safer, anyway. Only one window, and it wasn’t accessible via the fire escape. Strange people wouldn’t be able to climb through and watch him sleep. 

Quietly, Dick moved into the kitchenette and set down the gear on the counter. He pulled a pad of paper from his pocket and wrote a quick note so Jason wouldn’t freak out about strange clothes in the apartment.

_ Hope you like them! They’ll probably fit. — Nightwing _:)

Just as he set down the note, a voice said, “You’re not that slick, you know.”

Dick whipped around, offering an apologetic smile even though he knew Jason could not see him in the dark. To each other, they were little more than forms, shadows backlit by the lights from the street. “Sorry,” he whispered. 

“Use the goddamn door,” Jason grumbled, stretching his arms over his head. 

“Why? You have a perfectly good window. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Even in the dark, Dick could _ feel _his scowl. Then there was the click of a lamp cord, and soft yellow light flooded the apartment. Yep. Jason was scowling. 

Not him, too.

“It’s a joke,” Dick explained slowly, holding his frustration on a tight leash. “A goddamn joke.”

Something passed over Jason’s face. He looked away, and folded into himself. “I... I’m sorry,” he said.

Fuck. It was moments like these when Dick felt the weight of what Jason had been through. Like when he flinched when Dick told him, jokingly, to fuck off. Or when he fell from the climbing wall and seemed shocked that there was no punishment for falling. First he would think: _ This is someone who’s suffered. _ And then he’d think: _ I’m a horrible person for doubting him, even for one second. _ Followed by: _ But what if it’s all a lie? _ And finally: _ Even if it is a lie, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve my sympathy_. 

Maybe Dick just didn’t know what to think.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “You’re sorry? For what?”

Jason shrugged. 

_ Right_, Dick thought. “Look,” he began.“I should be the one apologizing. I woke you up.”

Another shrug. “Whatever,” Jason said. “I was having a—a weird dream, anyway.”

Despite knowing the answer, Dick asked the question anyway. “Want to talk about it?”

“It was just a weird dream.”

Dick smiled. “I like weird.”

Another shrug. It was like trying to bait a fish with water. Utterly pointless and ineffective. Time for a new strategy: light guilt. 

“You weren’t dreaming about me, were you?” he asked. “Is that why you won’t talk?”

Jason’s face burned bright red, but he glowered all the same. Turning away, he said, “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Damn. He was good. Sighing, Dick walked back over to the living area—it would be a stretch to call it a room—and plopped down in a chair. He could see Jason better from this angle. All of him, including the most recent wound to his shoulder and the series of cuts and cigarette burns along his chest. They hurt him to look at. He had never asked Jason about those scars, and he wouldn’t, not when Jason would hardly open up about weird dreams or training exercises. 

“He wants you to come with us tomorrow,” Dick said. “On patrol.”

Jason’s head snapped up. “Are you...you’re serious?” he asked. His face was calm, but his voice betrayed a level of apprehension. Suspicion. 

“Unless you don’t want to go.”

“No,” Jason said quickly. “I want to help. It’s just that—”

“You don’t trust us,” Dick finished. 

“I’m not the one wearing a mask and...” Jason squinted. “What the fuck is that Hawaiian shirt? Christ, man.”

“You noticed?”

“How could I not? _ Fuck_.” Jason pulled his knees into his chest, then looked over at Dick. “What?”

“What what?”

“You’re smiling like you know something.”

Dick shrugged. “You’re funny when you’re disgusted,” he said. “Like a little kid.”

Jason scowled into the crook of his arm, but Dick could see the tips of his ears grow pink. “What did you put on the counter?” he mumbled.

“Some gear. Can’t have you going out like that.”

“And yet I’m sitting across from fucking Ace Ventura.”

“I prefer to think of myself as Leonardo DiCaprio, actually. From—”

“_Romeo Plus Juliet. _Sure. I guess. Whatever.”

Right: Jason the Literature nerd. Of course he’d seen that movie. Dick grinned at him, if only to hide the warm buzzing in his chest. Maybe the key to speaking with Jason was pissing him off. Maybe all Dick had to do was wear stupid clothes, and Jason would laugh, and Dick would see that bright, handsome smile—

_ Stop. _ He couldn’t think about that kind of thing. Not with Jason. The guy was what—nineteen, twenty? And one of Black Mask’s victims. _ And_, no matter how much Dick ached for him not to be, he may still be working with Black Mask. He may be trying to kill them all. 

Suddenly Dick realized that the two of them have been sitting in silence. Jason was staring at the floor, tapping his fingers along the scars on his forearm. Great. Dick just _ had _to fantasize about some traumatized-and-possibly-homicidal young adult. It wasn’t the worst fantasy he’d ever had, but it was up there. And now he’d gone and made things awkward.

“Look,” he said, standing. “I should get some sleep. We both should.”

Jason muttered something he didn’t quite catch.

“What?”

“I said, that’s a good idea.”

Dick wondered what he had actually said, if it was kind or otherwise. Probably not. “Alright,” he said. “Tomorrow. Noon. Sound good?”

“Sounds peachy.”

“And get some real sleep. Like, in a bed.”

Jason fell back onto the couch. “That bed’s too soft. It’s easier to sleep when they’re hard.”

Grinning, Dick said, “I like them hard too.”

Silence. Tough crowd.

“Okay. I deserve that,” Dick said. “See you tomorrow, Jay.”

As he slipped back through the open window, he thought he heard Jason mutter _ goodnight_. He knew that he must have heard him wrong, and yet he smiled.

♙♙♙

Dick didn’t think that Jason got much sleep. When the young man stumbled into the warehouse, he kept shielding his gaze from the sun, as if the very light were offensive to him. And when he blinked, his eyes lingered shut. Dick made a mental note to get him a more comfortable bed. 

_ If he doesn’t try to kill us first. _

But that was ridiculous. He didn’t want to believe that Jason would, that he could. Jason, who slept on couches instead of beds. Jason, who liked Jane Austen and never made a mess. Jason, who laughed when Dick wore ugly shirts.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, tossing Jason a water bottle. 

Jason looked into the bottle, then looked him over. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Why? You miss it?”

“I was hoping to take a knife to it.”

“You’ve got no sense of style,” Dick laughed, but Jason merely gestured to himself.

“I can’t help that you give me crap,” he said.

Dick suddenly noticed that Jason was wearing one of the shirts he had given him, an under armor shirt that hugged him tighter than the loose tees he’d been wearing. Damn. He looked _ good_. 

_ Stop it, fuckhead. _

He cleared his throat and said, “Speaking of, where’s that gear I dropped off?”

Jason pointed to the bag he had dropped by his feet. “It fits pretty well,” he replied. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They fell into silence. Then, Jason said, “I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t have said that about the clothes. They’re fine.”

At his words, Dick’s heart splintered. He wanted so badly to wrap his arms around him and squeeze out the anxiety, the fear, the memories that sunk their claws into his brain. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s fine, Jason. You’re allowed to dislike things.”

A tension left Jason’s shoulders, but his brow remained furrowed. “You mean that?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“And what if I told you I don’t like you?”

His first instinct was to say, _I wouldn't blame you. _His second instinct was to fight back, to say, _you don't like anyone_ and _you're an asshole. _Instead he swallowed the anger, the shame, and let it settle in his belly. 

Afer a moment, Dick said, “Well, I’d say that you’re lying. I’m irresistible.”

Jason unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and took a long drink. He wasn’t smiling, but there was definite light behind his eyes. “Hello, Irresistible. The name’s Jason.”

“Charmed, I’m sure." 

Rolling his eyes, Jason stepped over to the training ring and started throwing punches at the bag. “Are we training or what?” he asked, accentuating each word with a forceful blow to the fabric. 

“I don’t know. Have you eaten today?”

_ Thud. Thud. _ “I’m not hungry.” _ Thud. _“Thanks.”

“Okay,” Dick began, “but he wouldn’t want you on patrol if you don’t eat something.”

The hitting stopped. Jason held on to the bag to stop it from shaking. “Why?” he asked.

“Because it’s not healthy.”

“No,” he said, striking the bag in the center. For the first time, Dick noticed that he wasn’t wearing training gloves. That had to hurt. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Oh. Again Dick resisted the urge to hug him. “Because you’re a person, Jason.”

“Huh.” _ Thud. Thud. _“That didn’t stop anyone before.”

“We’re not like those people.”

_ Thud. _Jason bobbed beneath an imaginary blow, and threw his elbow into the bag. “I know.”

“You still don’t trust us, huh.”

“Like I said. _ I’m _ not the one wearing a mask.”

Dick paused, witty comments calcifying on his tongue. Jason had a point. And the associations he must have with masks... Damn. Of course he didn’t trust them. He spent his formative years being manipulated by—_ tortured _by—a man in a mask. How could they have been so stupid?

_ Or he’s playing you_.

Right, right. They couldn’t just go ripping off their masks, not until they know for sure. Not until tomorrow’s dawn peeks over Gotham. Jason was smart. It wouldn’t take too much guessing to figure out that, if Dick Grayson was Nightwing, then Bruce Wayne was Batman. Hell, Tim had figured it out when he was a preteen. It would probably take Jason a few minutes, tops. And if he was still working with Black Mask... how long before every criminal in Gotham knows who they are? 

“I’m sorry,” Dick said softly. “But you know—you _ know _why we have to wear masks.”

Jason stopped hitting the bag. A dark look passed over his face, but in an instant it was gone. He fell out of a proper stance, and picked up his water bottle from the floor. “Yeah,” he said, fiddling with the cap. “I know why people wear masks.”

_ God damn it_. Dick chewed on the inside of his mouth. “I—” 

“No,” Jason said sharply. “It’s fine. Sorry. I just—sorry.”

“You apologize a lot.”

Jason cast his eyes to the floor, his fingers twisting and untwisting the bottle in his hands. His expression was angry. No, hesitant. Confused, even.

“I guess,” he muttered, and started boxing again. After a few moments of silence, Dick hopped into the ring and threw a pair of training gloves in his hands.

“If you’re going to train on an empty stomach,” he said, “you should at least do it properly.”

Jason snatched the gloves from his hands. “I never actually said that I didn’t eat, you know. I actually like to cook.”

“Oh?” Dick raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he replied, adjusting the straps on the gloves. “The woman who cooks for Roman. Berner. She—she sometimes gave me lessons.”

“Well. You’ll have to teach me, then. I’m shit. Can’t make toast without turning it to embers.”

“Hmm.” Jason examined his gloved hands, flexed his fingers. “The B-man didn’t teach you how to cook? Shame on him.”

Dick shrugged. “That’s not his job.”

“Right. He’s probably too busy with Robin.” 

A twinge of pain pressed into Dick’s abdomen. _ He doesn’t know_, he reminded himself, squeezing his fists until the tendons in his hand began to sting. _ He doesn’t mean to make it hurt. _

“Not exactly,” Dick replied, slowly. “Robin’s not a troublemaker. He’s better behaved than I ever was.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Like they say. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Jason scoffed. “Now _ that’s _ a fucking lie.”

“Really? Then judge me.”

“You’re joking.”

Dick shook his head. “I’m not.”

“Fine.” Jason took a step forward and looked him over, his teal eyes narrowing as he focused on different part of Dick’s body: his hands, his neck, his hairline. “You have some trauma in your past,” he began, “but you cover it up with your cheerful attitude. The name ‘Nightwing’ isn’t something you made up. You care about other people more than you care about yourself.” He paused for just a moment, then added, “And you talk a lot, but only because you don't know what else to say. Just saying.”

Damn. Dick stood there, shocked into silence. It was the Nightwing thing that got him, mostly. And the not caring about himself bit. And everything else, really. 

“You and Robin would get along,” Dick said, finally. Sharply.

“You’re just easy.”

“You got lucky.”

Jason looked at him, then said, “Right. You’re _perfect.”_

Another pain settled inside of Dick. If only Jason knew. Dick Grayson was a fuck-up; he would always be a fuck-up. The Joker. Babs. Jericho. Slade. Kori. Zucco. The list went on. And on. And on.

Swallowing, Dick tried not to grimace. He could feel his jaw clenching, his muscles tensing. “I'm far from perfect. If you really knew me, you'd know that.”

"Yeah, right" 

"You don't know anything about me."

"Clearly I know enough." 

"Shut up." It came out more sharply than he meant it to. Almost a hiss. And because Dick Grayson couldn't stop himself from being a fuck-up, he kept going. "If you're just gonna make up shit about me, then I'm just gonna make up shit about you."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"I think you're just a sad boy with a pretty face," Dick said. 

A look unlike any other he had seen passed over Jason’s face. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his brow twisted upward. It was a look of discomfort and shame, and more than that, even. Revulsion. 

“Don’t call me pretty,” Jason muttered in a voice far softer than Dick thought him capable of. “Please.”

God damn, he fucked up. Again. He could only imagine what hell had left that kind of mark. “Shit,” Dick said quickly._ Ladies and gentlemen: another mistake!_ “I didn't know.”

And then the look was gone, and Jason was punching things again. “It’s fine,” he replied.

Dick shook his head. “No, it’s not—”

“Don’t push it,” Jason hissed, driving his elbow into the bag. 

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Dick watched him work in silence. He could picture the gears turning in his head, channeling the energy from each blow into the power needed to drive the bad thoughts from his mind. Dick had done it himself, innumerable times. Hitting people to forget Tony Zucco. To forget the sight of his parents’ bodies. To forget that he had failed them. Failed everyone.

I understand, he wanted to say. But he knew that Jason wasn’t ready to believe him.

So instead he sat back and let him do what he needed to do. As he watched beads of sweat form on Jason’s brow, Dick thought about patrol, about the test they were about to give him. And every atom in him burned with the hope that Jason would do the right thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yEET
> 
> Feel free to ask me questions if you have any. I'm happy to answer anything that won't be a major spoiler :)


	10. Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN! *cackles evilly*
> 
> I'm finally going as Jaybird this year (even started squatting extra for the Thigh Power), but no one knows who I am. Whatever. They don't know what they're missing.
> 
> I originally wasn't going to post until after NaNoWriMo, but my power went out this week, and my city was on fire (yay California!), so I had plenty of time to write. Ha ha...ha...ha. I'd say enjoy, but...
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: graphic violence, emotional abuse, references to physical abuse_

_ The night before. _

As he sat in the dark, Jason waited for Nightwing to pop back through the window. Bitterness filled his mouth. He wanted to think that the idiot had probably forgotten something, or would pretend to have forgotten something, just to see what Jason did when people’s backs were turned. But as the clock ticked forward and Nightwing did not return, Jason found himself thinking of other matters.

The stupid Hawaiian shirt. The stupid grin. The way he flirted—if it _ was _ flirting, and not some sort of sick test. The way he said _ buddy _. The way he signed the note he left on the pile of gear: 

_ Hope you like them! They’ll probably fit. — Nightwing _:)

Jason ran his fingers over the letters. They were in the same messy hand from the previous note, though he had given up on the possibility of handwriting analysis. Like he’d ever get a chance to use that. But the smiley face was new. He regarded it curiously, pretending to ignore the way his heart fluttered at its innocence. In all the notes Roman had ever given him, the man hadn’t even used an exclamation point, let alone something so mundane and intimate as that.

Roman. He should call Roman. Give him an update. If Nightwing was going to come back, he would have done it by now.

The phone rang once. Twice. Then it stopped.

“God damn it, boy,” Roman growled through the line. “It’s nearly two in the morning. This better be important.”

Heat filled his face. “They want to take me on patrol.”

“And?”

Jason paused. He didn’t know what else there was to say. This was a good thing, right? Shouldn’t Roman be happy? 

“It’s been six fucking weeks.,” Roman said. “Am I supposed to congratulate you for doing the bare minimum?”

“I just thought—”

“I know what you thought.” Roman sighed, and Jason could almost see the disappointment on his face. At the very least he could feel it through the phone, the curl of his lip, the way his gaze was tight and burning. “Six weeks, Jason. How do I know I can trust you?”

Jason shook his head even though he knew Roman could not see. “You can. Always.”

“Can I? I gave you one task. One task. And have you completed it?”

Silence.

“Answer me, Jason.”

“No.”

“No,” Roman repeated, his voice sharp with venom. “You disappoint me, Little Wolf. I thought you were better than this.”

Knowing better than to offer an apology, Jason bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. “I am.”

“I am, _ Sir. _ You forget your place.”

Fuck. All that time with the fucking Batman and he’d let go of his very first lesson. Licking his lips, he said, “I am, Sir.”

Roman made a noise of disapproval. “Do you even want this anymore?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Jason said quickly.

“Really? Because it seems like you’ve been stalling. Remember, Little Wolf. I _ made _ you. Don’t give me reason to _ unmake _ you.”

“I won’t, Sir. It’s just that—”

“They’re being nice to you, aren’t they?” Roman hissed. “It’s just part of their act. They don’t care about you any more than the sick fucks running Gotham. As soon as you give them what they want, they’ll drop you off in rehab and ask you to thank them.”

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. The man was right; six weeks, and the Bats still watched him from their peripheries. They wore tight smiles and their words were kind, but Jason knew better. Even if they seemed to pity him, even if they flirted and signed their notes with smileys, it was all fake. He was a murderer and an idiot, an intruder in their precious, _ perfect _ clan. God. He’s so _ fucking stupid_.

On the other end of the line, Roman sighed. “They’ve given you an opportunity, Jason,” he said. “Make use of it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Where are they taking you?”

He knew better than to reply with anything noncommittal. “They’ve been talking about a weapons shipment at the docks,” he said. “Late night. Early morning. Some Maroni shit.”

“Christ.” Roman laughed. “Fucking bastard thinks he can retake Gotham. What a joke. When this is over, Jason, I’d like you to end his misery.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“In the meantime, where do you aim?”

The answer came quickly. “Between the armor plates. Beneath his shoulders.” Jason paused, then added, “Or in the face.”

“Very good,” Roman replied. “Get some rest, Little Wolf. You think too much.”

Before he could stop himself, Jason thought about Nightwing. _ Get some real sleep. Like, in a bed. See you tomorrow, Bud. _

“I will,” he muttered.

“And Jason?”

Jason waited.

“It really would be such a shame to unmake you.”

His lips pursed in anticipation of the response—_ you won’t need to, Sir _—but the line was already dead. He was alone. The cool air of the apartment pushed down on his shoulders, sending a shiver down his spine. Jason felt so exposed in the emptiness of the space, like the room was eating his body. It didn’t help that he was only wearing a tank top. Damn. He shouldn’t have worn something like that anyway. All it did was reveal more scars for people to gawk at. 

Jason scratched at the wound in his shoulder. It was almost completely healed, but still tingled from time to time. Yet no matter how much he dragged his nails over the skin, the sensation remained. Maybe it wasn’t the scar. Maybe, like the tightness in his chest, like his uneven breathing, it was just _ him_.

When he fell back to the couch, he did not sleep. He could only see the plates in Batman’s armor, the way they shifted when he moved. He felt Batman’s hand on his shoulder. He could hear the softness in his voice as he said _ thank you _ , and _ are you alright? _ and _ Jason. _ And then he thought about Nightwing, how he smiled and cared and looked handsome in stupid shirts no one should look good in. 

_ They’re faking all of it_, he reminded himself. _ Just like you are_.

But for a moment, he didn’t know if he could believe that. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

♟♟♟

_ Now. _

They stood on top of a tower of shipping containers, the three of them, observing the labyrinth of crates and containers below. The salty breeze whipped Jason’s hair into a frenzy, brought an uncomfortable wetness to his eyes. It was all so familiar. How many missions did he undertake in this wet armpit of Gotham? How many times did he spill blood on this dirty asphalt?

In the corner of his vision, he could see Batman observing him. He could _ feel _the man’s eyes on the back of his skull. Was he watching for weakness? Doubt? A waste of time. Jason knew these docks, these missions, like the back of his hand.

“How are you feeling?” Nightwing asked. His voice was quiet, but bright.

“Cold,” Jason replied gruffly. “This armor isn’t nearly as hot as you’d think.”

“You say that now. But when we get moving, these things are like furnaces strapped to your body. And the friction…” The man sucked in air between his teeth. 

Jason wanted to roll his eyes, but new that the gesture would be hidden by the domino mask they had given him. “Something to look forward to, then.”

Nightwing shrugged, and turned his gaze back to the horizon. “What do we got, B?” he whispered.

Batman tapped a finger to his gauntlet, which projected some kind of digital map above his forearm. “Sensors are picking up nothing,” he said, “But their ship could have anti-detection technology.”

Jason thought about the times Roman had him fuck with the Maronis. There was that hit on a cousin or some shit, about six months back…didn’t he have trouble tracking their movements? Yes, that’s right. Took him an extra two hours to put a bullet between the man’s eyes. And Roman had Cade dislocate his jaw as a punishment.

“They do,” he muttered. He didn’t know why he shared this; he wasn’t supposed to be_ helping _them. Maybe he could justify it with the excuse that they needed to be at ease around him, so that he would have greater opportunities to pull this off. 

_ You’re making the job easy for them_, the voices said. _ And the easier the job, the less chaos there is. The fewer opportunities you have to complete your mission_.

Jason squeezed his eyes to shut out the voices. He pictured blood seeping out from the holes in Batman’s cowl, Nightwing’s body twisted and broken on the ground. Then pretended these images only evoked feelings of hate and triumph or even cold disinterest.

Batman held his com up. “Oracle,” he said. “Status update.”

“_According to my intel, the shipment should be arriving in less than five minutes. However, I can’t get a reading on the ship._”

“Anti-detection technology. Red confirmed it.”

The sound of his codename made Jason’s gut twist. It made him feel… 

_ You don’t care how it makes you feel_, the voices hissed. _ You should be feeling nothing. _

Oracle’s voice filtered through the com. “Hmm. Well. Coast guard got visual on a boat headed inland about fifteen minutes ago. They should be showing up any moment now.”

Nightwing pulled out one of his escrima sticks and spun it around his wrist. “Then we should be moving.”

“Nightwing’s right,” Batman said. “We’ll notify you when the mission is complete. Batman out.” Turning to Jason, he added, “You are ready?”

“Ready.”

“Remember. Our goal is to subdue the men and secure the weapons until the police can take over. Don’t use more force than necessary.”

Jason nodded, biting back the _ yes, sir _ that rested on his tongue. When did his heart start drumming against his rib cage? When did he start to sweat? Fuck. What the hell is wrong with him?

“I’ll take the ship. You two secure the immediate area. Understand?”

Nightwing answered for them both. “Got it.”

“And Red?” 

He looked up. Batman’s face was impassive as ever, but there was a softness in those hard lines, one felt and not seen.

“We’re here for you,” the man said, and a lump formed in Jason’s throat. But before he could respond, Batman was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the shipping containers.

Nightwing remained. “He’s right, you know,” he said quietly. “And we’re glad you’re here with us.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Roman’s voice echoed in his ears. _ They don’t care about you any more than the sick fucks running Gotham. _It had to be a joke. Batman and Nightwing were jokes. But if these things were true, why did his gut tell him that they spoke the truth?

“Well. We better go. Come on, Red-bird.”

_ Finally. _ He breathed a sigh of relief. At least he could focus on the movements, on the environment, instead of wasting time in his stupid head.

Together they leapt down to the pavement. Nightwing was more graceful and silent than Jason had ever seen him; each miniscule movement was controlled and timely, as if he were playing a part in a dance. Jason forced his eyes away. _ He doesn’t care. You shouldn’t care. Stop it stop it stop it_.

And then Nightwing reached out and pushed Jason to the side, pressing him against a hard wall. Jason balled his fists, drew them back as if to strike, but then he remembered himself, where he was, what he was doing. He felt the cool metal of the container against his back, his calves, his skull, but Nightwing’s hands were warm against his shoulders, and he smelled sweet and rich, and his face was so close, and it would be so, so easy for Jason to lean forward and press his lips against—

“What the fuck?” he growled, pushing the vigilante off of him.

_ Strike him. He tried to hurt you. Strike him. _

Nightwing pressed a gloved finger to his lips. _ Around the corner, _ he mouthed. _ The lights_.

Jason looked. Indeed there were lights, blue and blinding, moving in waves over the path ahead of them. He could hear gruff voices accompany them. God damn it. How did he miss that? What’s wrong with him.

“Ten bucks says they’ll say something stupid,” Nightwing whispered.

“That’s dumb,” Jason hissed, watching the lights grow brighter. The voices were clearer now; he could hear individual words, names. _ Something something boss_. _ Shipment blah blah cargo. _

Nightwing shrugged, a stupid grin plastered over his face. Slowly he stepped backward, then in one quick motion leapt atop one of the shipping containers and peered down at where the men had to be. “Evening, gents,” he said, and every beam of light turned its face on him. “A bit late for a walk, don’t you think?”

A split second of silence. Then someone shouted, “Don’t just stand there, shoot him!”

Nightwing threw a smirk down at Jason before disappearing into darkness. Bullets ripped through the air where he had stood seconds before. The grunts started shouting; their footsteps pounded against the pavement. And above it all, Jason could hear the sound of Nightwing’s laughter.

“Guns?” the vigilante shouted from everywhere, nowhere. His voice bounced off of steel, asphalt, iron. There was a dull thud, and one of the men hit the ground. “That’s no way to treat a fellow traveler!”

_ He’s distracting them for me, _ Jason realized, amusement flickering through him. _ Idiot_.

Walking out from the shadows, he did not try to mask his footsteps as he approached the nearest man. It’s not like the grunt was looking, anyway. Jason moved quickly. One quick blow to the back of the knee, another to his neck. The man choked and dropped his gun as he fell; Jason slammed his head into the pavement. Instinct told him to break his neck, to take his knife and draw it across his throat. But he couldn’t. Not yet. 

“Shit!” someone hissed. “There’s another one of—”

Jason drove his knee into the man’s stomach before he could finish the thought. A clumsy fist slammed into the side of his face. He grit his teeth and hit the man in the nose. Once. Twice. Stunned, the man fell. Jason let him.

_ Right_, he thought, rubbing his jaw. _ This is how it works. This is what you were made for_.

He settled back into a rhythm: 

Strike. Duck. Tackle. Punch until your knuckles are bloody. Block knife. Drive knife into thigh. Kick. Slam into pavement. Duck. Strike. One, two, three, four.

Then Nightwing was beside him, and they fought together. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his knuckles trembled with each blow. And yet, with Nightwing at his side, he didn’t care. It all felt so natural, so easy.

There was a sharp crack, and the last man fell to a blow from Nightwing’s escrima sticks. All around them, silence. The night felt wetter than before. Perhaps it was the heaviness of the fog, perhaps it was the sweat that hung in the air. Jason exhaled slowly, trying to quell the beating of his heart. 

As he watched Nightwing kneel by one of the bodies, he couldn’t think about picking up one of the guns that littered the pavement. He couldn’t think about putting a bullet in his head. He couldn’t think about Roman, or about himself, or about how time itched ever so slowly towards daybreak, and that with the sun would come failure. No. All he could think about was the softness of Nightwing’s touch, how he searched the men as if afraid to touch them.

“They’re Maroni’s men, alright,” the man said, standing. He kept his back to Jason for a second too long before he turned around. “They’ve got the ink.”

Jason cleared his throat, then nodded. “And the weapons?”

Nightwing nodded his head in the direction of the water. “Better start looking,” he said.

They find crates by the water’s edge, three in all. Two were closer to the water’s edge, the third, a slightly smaller box covered in orange warning labels, rested farther down the docks. A few men lay unconscious to the side, limbs limp and bound by sturdy rope. A hundred meters down the bay, a small fishing boat lingered idly on the water, devoid of lights or movement of any kind. Jason found himself searching for Batman, for a shadow with no source. Had he left already? Panic began to build in his chest. 

_ Is it over? It can’t be over, because that means I missed my chance, and if I missed my chance, then maybe I really am useless, and am I relieved that the choice was made for me? No. What the fuck am I talking about? I already chose. Roman gave me so many chances to turn back but I chose and chose and chose. I _ chose _ to do this. This is time taking the choice away from me. Taking my _ chance _ away from me. Unless it isn’t over. Is it over? If it is, I don’t know what I am going to do. _

A hand settled on his shoulder, snapping him to attention. 

“You alright?” Nightwing asked softly.

Jason cleared his throat and pushed the other man’s hand away. “Yeah. Thinking. Boxes.”

Nightwing stared at him for a moment, then turned his attention to the crates at their feet. “Crowbar,” he says, holding out a hand. 

There was one by Jason’s boot. He picked it up and thought about embedding the sharp end into the other man’s temple, but instead he handed it over. In a moment the lid was gone. Inside, about twenty large guns—almost futuristic in nature, as if someone were trying to imitate advanced tech with modern equipment—rested atop each other. High-powered assault rifles, if he had to guess.

“The fuck they were doing with these?” he asked, drawing his fingers along the barrel of the rifles. In the distance, movement. Could it be…no, no. It was only the sail of a dinghy. 

_ Kill him. Right now. And maybe Roman will forgive you for the greater failure. _

“Sell ‘em, use ‘em, doesn’t really matter,” Nightwing said, placing the crowbar along the seam of the second crate. “What matters is, we got ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Jason replied, his fingers curving around the handle of a rifle.

The lid of the second crate clattered to the ground. Handguns, this time. Looked to be made by the same quasi-futuristic manufacturer. 

_ Good. This will make your task easier. _

“Where is he?” Jason asked. He could not help it.

Nightwing rested his foot on the top of the first crate. “My guess,” he said, “is that he’s chasing down some blockhead who thought he could run.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do we follow?” Jason asked. A rising sense of urgency billowed inside him. _ There’s still a chance. There’s still a chance _. “We have to help, right?”

Nightwing twirled the crowbar in his hand. “He’s got it.”

“But we’re his fucking _ sidekicks_.”

“Hey. Maybe you’re _ my _sidekick. Ever think—woah woah woah. Put that down.”

Jason looked at his hands. One of the handguns rested comfortably in his hand, smooth and cool as polished stone. He hadn’t even realized that he picked it up. 

“Red.” Nightwing took a step forward, hands held out ever so slightly, as if he were disguising a defensive stance. “Don’t—we should let the police handle them. Put it down.”

And he saw it clearly: the sideways glances, the lingering blind spots. _ They’re testing me_, he realized, and a part of him splintered. For the first time, he felt the truth of Roman’s words. Batman, Nightwing, Robin, none of them trusted him. _ And if they never trusted me, how can I believe anything they’ve ever said? _

Nightwing said his codename again, and took another step forward. 

Heart hammering in his ears, Jason felt his finger flick across the trigger. His mouth was sticky-dry. This weapon was loaded. He could shoot it. He could raise it toward the vigilante’s face, pull the trigger, and—

No, no. Not yet. Not when he was expecting it.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, but did not place the gun atop the others. “I just…” _ Just what? _“…I thought I recognized it.”

“Oh.” Nightwing straightened. “Are you okay?”

Jason glared at him through the lens of his domino mask. “Why the fuck are you asking?”

“I don’t know, I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

Nightwing looked at him, and Jason wanted him to lash out, to strike him, to give him a reason to retaliate with all that he had. But instead the man just stood there, words visibly lingering on his lips, and Jason thought, _ the night is too quiet _. 

And it was. Even the waves had settled into stillness, and there was nothing, not even the whisper of breeze through their hair. Too quiet, too quiet, too—

“Jason,” Nightwing said. 

And the third crate erupted. 

Blinding light filled his vision, and the shockwave sent him flying into the asphalt, clutching his face, his eyes. Fire lapped at his skin, sizzling and burning as a high-pitched ringing overtook the rest of his senses. Blood filled his mouth. Jason could do nothing but thrash on the ground, filling and emptying his lungs too cool the heat within and outside himself. 

When his vision cleared, he saw Nightwing, at the edge of the docks, unconscious. No, not unconscious. He was groaning, trying to push himself away from a flaming board that had landed beside him. His suit was torn, _ burnt _across the midsection, and his right forearm bent unnaturally beneath his torso. 

“_ Nightwing_,” a voice crackled, through his receiver. “ _ Nightwing. Come in. _”

_ Kill him, _ the voices said. No, it was one voice this time. Roman’s voice. _ Make it look like an accident. And when the Caped Crusader comes to mourn his brat, kill him too _.

With a groan, Jason pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the stinging of his burnt arms, the raw flesh on his palms. Blood dripped from his mouth. He had bitten through his tongue.

“Red!” Nightwing called out. He was standing now. His good arm covered his eyes, but he kept craning his neck, as if he could see him through skin and bone. “Jay! Jay! Answer me!”

Jason looked down. The handgun rested on the asphalt only a few feet away from him, casting a long shadow in the flickering light from residual flames. 

_ This is what you were made for, Little Wolf_.

Nightwing must have heard him step forward. “Red,” he muttered. “Red, is that you?”

The gun’s safety switched off with a small click. Jason held it in his hand as if testing the balance, weighing its power. 

_ They don’t trust you, boy. They don’t care about you. And they never have. _

He cocked the gun and pointed at Nightwing’s head, but could not bring himself to pull the trigger. _ On three_, he thought. _ One. _

“Jay?”

_ Two_.

Nightwing’s arm fell from his face. His eyes locked on to Jason’s. 

_ Three. _

Several things happened at once. A sharp, crushing pain in his hand. A batarang, in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. The gun, falling. A shadow, plunging from the sky. Jason felt himself yank the batarang out and dive forward, wrapping his arms around Nightwing’s neck and bringing the man to his knees. Their blood mingled on the asphalt. 

_ You fucking waste of space. You missed your chance. _

Batman stepped into the light, his face hardened but not burdened by emotion. “Jason,” he said. “Step away from him.”

“Fuck you,” Jason hissed, pressing the point of the batarang against the soft flesh of Nightwing’s throat. 

“You don’t—”

“—have to do this?” He laughed bitterly, and spat more blood onto the pavement. Behind him, the waves lapped against the edge of the docks. “God, you’re so fucking predictable.”

Batman took a step forward. He didn’t try to disguise his body language as Nightwing had. Rather, he was openly defiant: chin raised, chest out, fists curled at his sides. “I will give you another chance, Jason,” he said. 

“Or what?” Jason pressed the knife into Nightwing’s skin, drawing red beads to the surface. The vigilante exhaled sharply, but did not move. “Will you beat me? Break me? Tear me into a shadow of who I am?”

“That’s not who we are,” Nightwing choked. 

Jason’s blood boiled. “Shut up!” he hissed. “I saw what you do to people! Roman showed me! He _ showed _me!”

“Black Mask is a liar,” Batman said, taking another step forward. “He’s been lying to you, Jason.”

“Stop fucking saying my name! Don’t pretend you care about me!”

A look passed over Batman’s face, and at once the man’s physicality changed. Whereas before he was large and dangerous, something about him softened, loosened. He held out a hand as if to invite Jason forward, and said, “Come with us, son. We can help you.”

_ Kill him, boy. Don’t make me unmake you. _

Jason squeezed his arms tighter around the vigilante’s throat. His own blood dripped down his wrist, hot and thick and pungent. “One more step, and he dies.”

Nightwing struggled to free himself from the vice of Jason’s arm. “Jason,” he forced out. “Jason, please!”

_ “Shut up!” _

“Jason.” 

He looked up and found himself staring into Batman’s eyes, into the calmness beneath the cowl. With each passing second, the edges of the batarang sliced deeper into his palms, and the man in black stepped closer, and his vision blurred, and he could do nothing but think.

Think about the boy who lived on the streets. The boy who didn’t want to hurt anyone. Roman’s little wolf. The sharp pain of a broken nose. How many times had Roman struck him? How many times did Cade? But they cared for him, they wanted him to be better. Nightwing wanted him to be better. He laughed and smiled and let him fail, he _ let him fail _ and didn’t punish them, didn’t call him pretty, but now Jason was trying to kill him. But Roman was right; they didn’t care about him, so he shouldn’t feel bad. He shouldn’t feel anything. This should feel _ good _. Why doesn’t it feel good?

And then the voices were back, all of them, fighting inside his head.

_ Leave your mark on history or on the pavement. _

_ Do not disappoint me. _

_ I’m only trying to take care of you. _

_ Kill him. _

_ Are you really such a fucking idiot? _

_ The things you have been through…no one should have to experience. _

_ You have every right to be angry. _

_ Don’t make me unmake you. _

_ Why are you being so nice to me? _

_ Little Wolf. _

_ Because you’re a person, Jason. _

“Stop!” he choked out, but it was useless now; his grip on the batarang was growing weak. And soon it was falling, and he stumbled, nearly into the water, until a strong hand wrapped around his vest and pulled him forward. 

He didn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He’s a dead man.

“Get away from me!” he cried out, pushing at the chest of the person who grabbed him. Through the hot blur in his eyes, he could make out a streak of blue. 

“I’m so sorry,” Nightwing whispered. 

“_Don’t touch me! _” 

“It’s alright, Jason,” Batman said. “You can breathe now.”

He took a step back, treading the edge of the docks. “No, no, no,” he stammered, blinking hard. “You’re monsters, you’re—I have to—”

And then it seemed that time had fallen still, and he is watching it all from afar.

He sees their eyes. Trained on his chest. On the red dot, right above his heart. Then he sees their mouths open, sees Nightwing’s hand stretch out toward him. Reaching, reaching. The man’s hand wraps around his. Just as he starts to pull, a shot echoes through the docks. Jason inhales sharply. A pressure builds in his abdomen. Warmth spreads through his shirt, drips onto the ground. He is falling, falling, falling.

And the black water of the bay swallows him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible person!! I'm sorry!! It's not over!! I promise!! An update is just one NaNoWriMo away!!
> 
> But in the meantime, I'll still respond to comments. If you feel I'm taking too long to update (same!), you can also contact me at morimaitar@gmail.com.


	11. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, I give you another chapter! A million apologies for making you wait so long. Thank you so very, very much for putting up with my nefarious use of the cliffhanger. I can't promise it won't happen again, but I can say the next wait time will be less than forty days. 
> 
> **warnings for this chapter include:** discussions of abuse, suicidal ideation

Most of the time, Dick listened to Jason breathe. It wasn’t because he wanted to make sure that Jason was still alive, as it had been a full day since he’d been critical and the question wasn’t so much _ if _ he’d wake up, but _ when_. It also wasn’t because he had little else to do while the bones of his arm knitted themselves back together, though perhaps that was part of it—Bruce wouldn’t let him in the field in his condition, not when Black Mask was able to predict their moves and Dick could hardly hold a glass of water. 

No, Dick listened because he found Jason’s soft breaths to be calming. A meditation of sorts. _ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _ Amazing how unconsciousness can steady breathing. 

Well. There was also the fact that he volunteered to listen. Stay on the case. Watch Jason until Bruce or Tim or whoever could figure out what the hell they were going to do with him. The best case, in Dick’s opinion, would be for Jason to wake up with no memory. But that was unlikely. He sustained only a mild concussion, and last Dick heard, blood loss didn’t cause amnesia.

_ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _

Dick turned his gaze to the window, to the slowly fading sky. Even in August the clouds were thick above Gotham and the streets were darker than they should be. No moon. No stars. How long before the shadows of East End filled with screams and gunfire?

_ My fault, _ he thought. _ It’s my fault everything went down the way it did. _

He sighed, breathing in the cool, sterile air. If he were able to think like Bruce or Cass, to see through Jason’s lies, he wouldn’t feel like shit. His arm wouldn’t be broken, the others wouldn’t be panicking, and he wouldn’t feel...hurt? Betrayed? Heartbroken? 

Or maybe, if he had said the right thing, tried a little harder, would Jason have come clean? Really, truly tried to be a better person? Maybe he didn’t do enough to make Jason feel welcome. After all, he had crossed some boundaries—without meaning to, sure, but he crossed them all the same. It was his goddamn fault for not treating Jason like a member of the team—

“He up yet?” Tim asked.

Dick looked over his shoulder at the lanky form in the doorway. The Robin costume appeared slightly rumpled; knowing Tim, he had likely been wearing it for twenty-four hours. Dick would have mocked him for his devotion to the job, but the truth was, he hadn't showered, hadn't slept, had hardly eaten. There were still flecks of dried blood on his skin. His, Jason's, it didn't matter. 

“Does he look like he’s up?” Dick replied. 

“Mmm.” Tim pulled up a chair and sat. He seemed to study Jason’s face, his brow furrowed in concentration. Or annoyance. “I still think it was a bad idea to bring him here.”

Here, to the clinic. Dick shrugged, and a small pain gathered in his broken arm. He could see where Tim was coming from: even for someone in Jason’s condition, it would be so easy to break out and disappear in the dark alleys of East End. The clinic had been overcrowded as of late, filled with burnt and broken bodies from robberies, muggings, drug deals gone wrong. Shit. No matter how hard they worked, it could never be enough. And now with his arm, and Bruce’s concerns, and the shitstorm that was Jason Todd, they could do even less. 

“Oh yes, of course,” Dick said sharply. “We should have brought him to the manor. _That _would have solved all our problems.”

Tim pulled his lips tight. “How’s the arm.”

“Every day I envy Wally’s healing factor," he said, meaning, _I don't want a healing factor. I deserve every ounce of pain I'm in._

“That sucks.”

“I'm fine. By the way, Junior, the nurses will be doing their evening rounds soon,” Dick said. “What will they say if they see Robin?”

“What do they say when they see Dick Grayson?”

Dick gave him a half-smile, the best he could work up. “Please,” he said. “I’m John Loyd, visiting a family friend. My resemblance to Dick Grayson is purely coincidental.”

Tim huffed. “I still think it’s dangerous for you not to wear a mask. What if he—”

“Wakes up?” Dick reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his domino mask, giving it a little wave. “Besides, would _ you _wear this thing all day? I can hardly read through the lenses.”

“Fine.”

Silence followed. Dick tried to maintain his smile, but he could not stop it from falling to the floor, too preoccupied with the sick anticipation in his gut. Turning away, he asked, “You or B think of something yet?”

“Why don’t we close the door?” Tim asked, glancing at Jason’s unconscious form. Concern flickered across his eyes, causing the knot to tighten in Dick’s stomach. 

_ Why do you care? _ he asked himself. _ He’s the reason your arm is broken. He tried to kill you_.

But he cared nonetheless. 

The door shut with a soft click. A second passed, then another.

“So? What is it?” Dick asked, thinking, _ get it over with_. 

Tim sat back down in the chair, picking at the lint on his costume. “You know he needs help, right?”

“Actually,” Dick said, “I’ve always thought that blood loss and temporary comas were good for the health, you know?”

“You know what I mean, _ John_.” 

Someone passed by the door; their shadow spilled over the floor, halted, then continued down the hallway. Dick exhaled slowly. Until he sat back in the chair, he did not realize how tense he had become. His shoulders were hard, his neck stiff as his broken arm, as the muscles in his calves.

_ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _

“Yeah,” Dick said after a moment. “Yeah, I know.”

He cleared his throat and nodded, unable to look at anything but Jason’s closed face. His knuckles tightened around the edge of the chair as he thought of the blade against his throat, of Jason’s frantic voice, of the tears that streamed down his face. Then there were the other things: the scars that ran across Jason’s torso, the way he became flustered and submissive when he made the smallest of mistakes, the way he seemed to shrivel inside when Dick called him _ pretty_. And, lastly, there were the external circumstances, the high possibility—no, certainty—that Black Mask was still searching for him, waiting to kill him or reclaim him or whatever evil went on in his head. 

Tim continued. “And, obviously, we can’t blame him for...this, given his...circumstances.”

“Cut the euphemisms. We all know what he did and what he’s been through.”

“Okay, fine,” Tim said. “I didn’t want to offend you or anything. That’s all.” 

“Offend me?” Dick laughed bitterly. He knew what Tim meant—it was a conversation they had a number of times since Jason had forced his way into their lives—but still could not stop the venom from spilling out. “Why the hell would that offend me?”

The answer was as expected. “Because you care about him,” Tim said. Then, quickly, “And people in general. You care about people.”

“He tried to kill me _ and _ B.”

“Talk all you want, but you’re still here protecting him.

“Just get on with it,” Dick snapped. “He needs help. Next point.”

Tim sighed, running a gloved hand through his dark hair. “You also know that he’s dangerous, right.”

A sudden understanding drove the air from Dick’s lungs. “You’re not talking about _ Arkham_,” he said. “Jesus _ fuck_, Robin. You want to put him on the same level as Bane? Harvey? The _ Joker?_”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m not a nerd like you,” Dick snapped, “but that doesn't mean I'm an idiot. I can still read between the lines.”

Tim raised his hands in a _ calm down _motion that only made Dick’s fists clench and his heart beat faster. “Let me finish,” he said. “We don’t want to put him in Arkham. But maybe somewhere out-of-state, somewhere less...inept, I guess.”

_ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _

Dick breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly, and went back to staring at Jason. _ My fault. _Though he looked much the same, the gunshot had taken a more subtle toll. His face was thinner, his cheekbones pushing against the freckled skin. He was paler, too, and somewhat washed out, like an old photograph lying in a hospital bed. Dick tried and failed to picture Jason in the dark blue getup of a psychiatric patient, thinking only of the broken words he cried into the night. 

_ Don’t touch me! _

“There’s a good one,” Tim said, “in Belmont.”

Dick laughed softly, angrily. “You’re acting like people just _ give up _ the life, buddy. No way he’d ever leave that place, not after all he’s been—” He stopped suddenly, filing the thoughts in his head.

“What?” Tim asked.

“J’onn,” Dick replied. “What if...do you think we can get the League in, ask J’onn to, you know, do his Martian thing? Give him a clean slate?”

Tim shook his head, an exasperated look written over his face. “Really. You think that’s a good idea.”

Dick looked again at Jason, imagining himself in his place. Even with all of..._ everything_, there’s no way in hell he would want himself erased. 

_ Damn_. Why did everything feel so difficult? It’s not like he had to be _ happy _that Jason was leaving, but he shouldn’t feel sick, either. 

“I don’t know,” Dick sighed. “That was really the best plan you could come up with? A psych ward, in _ Belmont?_”

“It’s not like you offered any ideas. Other than brainwashing, obviously.”

“Haven't you heard?” Dick replied, casting a sharp look at Tim. “Thinking’s not really my thing.”

Tim looked at Dick’s cast, then at Jason’s unconscious form. “It's not your fault,” he said.

Dick said nothing. For some time they lingered in silence, letting the sound of machines and breath do the talking for them. 

Then someone shuffled on the other side of the door, and Dick tensed. The click of the handle—Tim slipped out of view—Dick bent over, his eyes fixed on the shadow entering the room. 

Leslie. 

She shut the door quickly behind her, checking once over her shoulder before letting her guard down. Dick felt himself doing the same. 

_ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _

“It’s late,” she said. “You haven’t moved. Have you eaten, at least?”

“Not yet.” 

Tim popped out from the shadows. “What?!” he demanded, and Leslie shrieked. 

“Don’t do that!” she hissed, glaring at him. “It’s bad enough that you’re involved with Batman. I swear, if you pick up on his bad habits, too…”

“We won’t call you for early morning surgeries, Doctor Thomkins,” Tim said. “We promise.”

“Really? Because you did,” Leslie replied, nodding her head at Jason. As she started checking the IV lines, she asked, “How long has he been involved in your little...enterprise?”

“It’s not like that. He—”

“I know,” she said softly, releasing the auxiliary clamp of the IV. “I knew him, when he was just a kid.”

Dick sat up straighter, eyes flickering toward Jason’s face. Even with all he had been through, Jason was still visibly young. Still, it was difficult to picture him as anything other than he is now. This was not because Dick could not imagine a smaller, more innocent Jason; rather, the thought of Black Mask twisting someone like that into what lay before them lurched uncomfortably in Dick’s gut. 

Leslie continued. “Well, I didn’t _ know _ him. I suppose I just watched him. Tried to intervene when I could but—” She let out a long sigh. “—sometimes you just can’t make a difference.”

Again Dick found himself thinking, _ my fault. _

“When do you think he’ll wake?” asked Tim.

“My guess doesn’t mean much, not until the clinic can afford an MRI machine. Judging from vitals alone…” She turned to peer at the cracked screen beside the bed, at the green dot that transcribed his heartbeat. “Well. He’s healthy. I’ll give him that.” 

“Thank you, Leslie.”

Dick smiled cheerlessly at Tim’s words. They were as close to a dismissal as possible without being obviously so; clearly the young Robin was learning more than just tactics from Bruce. He wanted to be happy for the two of them, for finding a balance that he and Bruce never had, but all Dick couldn’t help but hang on selfishly to the thought of himself alone on the streets of Gotham and Blüdhaven. If only Jason—

“Hmm.” Leslie held her clipboard against her chest as she stared down the two of them, her dark eyes peering out from behind loose strands of graying hair. “Take care of yourselves,” she said. “I’ll keep my medical assistants out of your way.”

“Thanks,” Dick replied, working up a genuine smile. It wasn’t hard, not for Leslie. At this point, all of them owed her at least twenty lifetimes. 

As soon as she left, Tim shot him a look. “You heard her. Go get something to eat.”

“No can do.”

“Why not?”

Dick shook his head, letting out the deep breath that was trapped in his chest. “I can’t leave him.”

“I see.” Even behind the mask, Tim looked taken aback. “I didn’t know you, uh—”

“I don’t,” Dick said quickly, ignoring the heat that crept up his neck. He rolled his shoulders and hoped that the ugly hospital lights disguised the rosiness that no doubt covered his cheeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was he, fifteen and in love again? This was a mission—no, worse than a mission. This was a clean-up, the bleach that spills after blood. “Tim, Black Mask _ found _ us. Only you and Oracle knew we were going to the docks, and his men still found out we were there. One of them _ shot _him,” Dick stressed, pointing at Jason. “Who’s to say they won’t come back to finish the job?”

“Maybe. But who’s to say that Jason didn’t tell them where we were going?”

“Elaborate, will you.” 

“Okay,” Tim said. “Maybe they found you because Jason told them where you were, not because they were tracking you.”

“Of course they were tracking him,” Dick snapped, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. “Admit it. If you or B sent him out on his own, you would have tracked him.”

Tim didn’t say anything, and Dick breathed a sigh of relief. He was right, and they both knew it. Now he just needed the kid to leave him alone. 

“Don’t you have patrol or homework or something?” he asked.

“Homework,” Tim repeated, a slight chuckle in his voice. “Been thinking about dropping out of school. It’s not like I need it.”

_ Of course. _“Don’t let Leslie hear you say that,” Dick muttered.

With a hum of acknowledgement, Tim walked over to the window and pushed it open. Cold air washed over them, tumbling through their hair and raising bumps along Dick’s skin. “Don’t forget to take care of you,” Tim said, one foot on the windowsill.

“Please.” Dick rolled his eyes as he pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his wrists. “I could _ never _forget about me.” 

If Tim smiled, Dick did not see it. He was gone in an instant, invisible against the dark outline of apartments and warehouses. _ Use the goddamn door_, Jason had said. Ha! If only he knew what it was like to have that rush of adrenaline as you fly above the world, feeling freedom in its entirety as you resist all the laws of the universe...

_ A psych ward in Belmont_. Dick slumped forward, drawing his hands through his dark hair. Regret churned inside him, pricking at the underside of his skin. If only, if only, if only.

♟♟♟

Leslie brought him a few protein bars before she retired for the night. When he thanked her, she shook her head and exhaled sharply. 

“I assume you’ll move him if he wakes up,” she said. 

Dick shrugged. “Depends on his state.”

“Well. If you do, don’t forget to close the roller clamp on the IV Last time you boys left fluid all over my floor.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

She waved him off. “No worries,” she said, then nodded her head solemnly. “Get some sleep.”

“That sounds unrealistic,” Dick said, but Leslie didn’t smile. She simply shook her head, turned on her heels, and marched out, closing the door behind her. 

Once again he was alone. As soon as he sat down, the ugly emotions returned. _ My fault_, he thought, supporting his head on his good arm. No matter what Bruce said, it was true. He was the one who had spent the most time with Jason, the one who should have seen the warning signs—actually seen them, rather than relied on suspicion—and prevented this whole mess from happening. The others, Bruce, Tim, Babs, Alfred, they were lying to make him feel better. Of course they knew he was at fault. 

Sighing, Dick tried to focus on nothing but what he could see in front of him, one of Bruce’s tricks to observe without absorbing or reacting. It was supposed to help him clear his mind, but all he could hear was Jason’s breathing, which did little to remove his thoughts.

_ In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _

Letting him go was not an option, obviously, and neither was sending him to prison. Hell, that was the worst option possible. Like trying to fix an injured bird by throwing it to the wolves. _ Or throwing a wolf into the pack and hoping it will domesticate itself_, Dick reminded himself. Treating Jason like an infant was exactly the type of thing he’d hate, _ exactly _the type of thing that would make him feel like he didn’t belong. Exactly the reason he hadn't gotten through to Jason.

_ In, two, three. Out, two, three. _

But what if they took care of him? They took care of Cass after all, and learned a thing or two in the process. If Cass would agree to help him, there’s no way Bruce would say no, right?

_In, two. Out, two._ _In, two. Out, two._

Dick’s head shot up. Jason had not moved, but the heart rate monitor did. The green dot jumped erratically, not quite racing but far from the even peaks it had achieved before. Jaw clenched, Dick jumped to his feet and ran over to the monitor, then looked down at Jason’s unconscious, unmoving form. Not a seizure. Pain, maybe? Or was this just what it looks like when someone comes back to reality?

“Jason,” he whispered, eyes flickering to the door. Leslie. _ Where is Leslie? _He couldn’t press the call button, not when there was the risk of someone else coming in. And he doubted that thing really worked, anyway. 

Beneath him, Jason let out a small groan. His brow furrowed. 

“Jason, you’re okay,” Dick said, louder this time. 

A pained gasp escaped Jason’s lips, but his eyes remained closed. Just as Dick reached for him, he began to thrash. His body contorted like a dying animal as he pushed against the thin sheets of the hospital bed, against Dick’s outstretched hands. 

_ No no no no_, Dick thought, trying to hold the young man in place. “Jason!” he said again. “No—Jay! Wake up!”

His groans grew louder, hoarser. _ Come on. Come on. _ Where was Tim when he needed him? He’d say something definitive, like, _ wait and he’ll pull through, _and Dick could pretend like he didn’t care that Jason was practically sobbing. 

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” Dick muttered, pressing his hands into Jason’s shoulders to keep him from jerking up and re-opening the bullet wound. The bandages were rough beneath his fingers, though Jason’s skin was hot enough to warm them through. 

Think. He needs to think. If he wasn’t seizing, then it had to be some sort of night terror, right? Or maybe he was just reacting to the last thing he remembered, which was—did he think he was dying? The air left Dick’s lungs. Oh, god. He must be scared to death. 

“You’re okay,” he said again. “You’re—”

He stopped suddenly as soon as he saw the sea-green of Jason’s irises. They were unfocused, frantic as his limbs, though with each passing second they became clearer. 

Fuck. His mask. 

Leaping back, Dick scrambled to secure his mask to his face, his own breaths as ragged as Jason’s. He flipped up the hood of his jacket for good measure and turned around, staring into the waking face of someone who was very much alive.

The young man was blinking slowly, wincing from the bright hospital lights. He remained somewhat disoriented, uneasy, as if he could not recognize anything around him. When his eyes finally settled on Dick, he frowned, blinked once again, then sat upright. 

“What—” He coughed violently, and fell back against the pillow. “Fuck,” he muttered. Or at least, Dick thought that was what he said. Jason’s voice was dry and strained, raspy like a smoker’s. Every word seemed to require too much effort.

“Anesthesia can weaken your voice,” Dick said. “Happened to me when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. It’ll come back soon.”

Jason said nothing. He held his hands up to the light, examining the parade of stitches between his thumb and forefinger. The batarang dug deep into the skin but would not cause permanent damage. At least, that was what Leslie had told them. Dick thought about relaying this information when he realized that Jason couldn’t care less about the wound.Judging from the way he jerked his limbs, it was clear that he was searching for something else.

Dick sighed, and offered Jason a quiet smile. “We’re not the sort to handcuff people to beds,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself: “Not hospital beds, anyway.”

God damn it. Jason glared daggers as he lowered his hands, trying to roll onto his side until he seized in pain and gave up. 

“Don’t,” Dick said, wishing his warning had come a second earlier. The sight of Jason in pain, it reminded him of the difference between sympathy and empathy. Compassion versus understanding. “Leslie would hate you to rip yourself open.”

At the mention of Leslie’s name, Jason’s eyes widened. His passive veneer returned within a second, though Dick had not missed the brief display of emotion. Good. This could be something to work with, something to show to the others. 

“I could call her, if you want,” Dick offered. “She went home for the night, but I’m sure she’d be happy to come back and—”

“No.”

“Alright. How are you feeling?”

Silence. Dick sighed, scratching at the outside of his cast. When did it get so hard to talk? Talking was his _ thing_. This should have been easy. 

“It’s okay if you’re in pain. I’ve been shot, you know. Recovery felt like someone took a sledgehammer to my ribs then traced the bruises with a fire poker.” A moment. Dick smiled as best as he could, to show that he was past it, really. If he did it well enough, he might even convince himself. “And that was with a _ handgun_. But with a sniper rifle...ouch.”

Jason moved only enough to tilt his head away from Dick, keeping his eyes fixed on the window of the room. He seemed to be searching for something among the dark shadows of East End, his chest rising and falling sporadically as the seconds passed. At times a car or truck would pass along the street below them, and for the briefest moment, the street would light up and Jason’s breath would hitch in his throat. Then, darkness, and silence.

Dick wriggled uncomfortably where he stood, aware of the intangible heaviness of the room. “Can I get you another blanket or anything?” he asked. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s cold and you’re wearing pants made of what’s legally considered paper.”

“No.” Jason furrowed his brow, his upper lip curled in indignation. “Why did you—you should have left me.”

“And let you die?” 

“Better dead now than dead later,” he snapped, his voice straining from the effort. 

Dick shook his head. “We don’t want you to _ die_.”

“This is the part where you try to fix me, right? Tell me I’m not a bad guy?”

“You’re not a bad guy, Jay.”

Jason snorted. “_Jay_. How’s the neck?”

Dick raised a hand to the thin red mark the batarang left against his skin. It was hardly a scratch, really, only deep enough to draw blood. If Jason had wanted to hurt him, he could have. But he didn’t. He tried, but he didn't. And they both knew it. 

"You did a shit job of killing me," he said.

"Fuck you."

Dick's fists clenched at his sides. "I saved your life."

“Right. You Bats are all the same,” Jason said. He laughed bitterly, before the sound dissolved into a coughing fit. A tiny spot of blood blossomed through the fabric on his chest. “You act like the solution when all you do is make the problem worse.”

_God damn it. _"Don't you fucking lecture me," Dick replied angrily. "I'm not the one bleeding out in a hospital bed."

Jason looked down at his chest and stared at the red stain growing there. A moment passed. Then he muttered, "He _shot _me," and Dick nearly fell into pieces.

Fucking temper, making him forget who was at fault. Jason had been brainwashed. This was how he'd been taught to act. _Not his fault, not his fault, not _his_ fault... _

“Here," Dick said quietly. "Let me—”

Jason smacked his hand away. Like a cornered animal, he pressed himself against the back of the hospital bed and stared, eyes hot with fury. “What do you have planned for me, huh? Not Blackgate. Some rehab program? Got a lot of ex-freaks in a community center? Sinners Anonymous?”

“Stop moving,” Dick said, struggling to keep an even voice. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Don’t touch me, you son of a—_ fuck! _” Hissing through his teeth, Jason grabbed his injured hand and squeezed until his knuckles were pale and tense, as if willing the pain away. A small amount of blood pooled between his fingers and dripped onto the sheets.

Dick stared, chewing the inside of his cheek. Unable to think of anything else to say, he asked, “Want a band-aid?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine. Bleed out.”

“Damn right,” Jason laughed. “It’s all about punishment with you freaks. When are you gonna beat me into a coma, huh?”

_ What the hell? _“I don’t know what you mean.” 

Wrong move. Spitting with fury, Jason ripped the needle out of his arm and threw it down, where it dangled uselessly from the IV bag. “I’ve _ seen _ you do it!” he snarled, tearing the remaining medical tape from his skin. “You don’t give a shit about life, as long as you’re not the one to end it!”

“Jay, calm down. The nurses—”

“Don't call me that! _I’m not your fucking friend!” _

With a quick step to the side, Dick dodged the water bottle Jason hurled toward his face. _Diffuse the situation. Don't lose it. Stay calm. Stay calm._ “Okay, I get it," Dick said carefully. "You don’t like plastic. I’ll bring a reusable one next time.”

Jason fell back against the pillow, jaw tight and trembling. “Fuck. Off.”

The room settled into a foul silence punctuated by the drip of the IV needle. Dick thought about the frightened, apologetic young man he had met a month ago, how different he was from the person before him now, from the person screaming in his sleep not minutes ago. _ This isn’t the Jason you know,_ he thought, but it did him little comfort. Hell, it didn’t even feel like the truth. The times when Jason cracked, have him a glimpse into whatever nightmares he had experienced, those felt _ real._ This cold, angry Jason, he had to be a fiction. 

“This isn't your fault,” Dick said suddenly. 

No reply. Jason was staring out the window again, unblinking. 

Sitting back down, Dick sighed. “I understand,” he said. “Really, I do. I know that you think Black Mask is the reason you’re still alive. I know that you think you owe him for this. But Jason, you _ don’t_. He tried to _ kill _you, and I can’t imagine how much that hurts. You don’t need to pretend otherwise.”

In front of him, Jason was still, hardly even breathing. His dark hair had fallen in front of his eyes, but it did little to disguise the trouble inside them. 

Dick swallowed the emptiness in his throat. “This isn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe me, and hell, I don’t blame you, but you don’t deserve anything that has happened to you. Least of all this.”

There was a moment of quiet, then Jason turned to look at him. His eyes were dry, but his voice trembled: 

“You should have let me die.”

The next time the room fell silent, Dick let it. It was better this way, where Jason could pretend he was okay, where Dick could pretend he knew how to fix things. 

Two days later, and Jason was still silent.

He would eat at least, but only barely, choosing instead to push food around until he gave up and set it aside. When Dick brought him a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt, he ignored them. Leslie came in every so often to change his bandages and check his vitals, but Jason never looked at her when she did. Even when she spoke to him, directly, about the simplest things—weather, clothing, pain—he would only glare at Dick, as if it’s his fault that Leslie was trying to make small talk. 

Well. In a way, it was.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst, in Dick’s opinion, was when Bruce tried to speak to him. Though Jason said nothing, betrayed no emotion, he started pulling on the stitches in his hand until it wept blood. Bruce, at least, seemed to understand that it was just a way to make him leave. Still, before he slipped away, he pulled Dick to the side.

“Robin told you about Belmont?” he asked.

Dick grit his teeth. “He’s hurt, B. Not crazy.”

“This behavior isn’t normal, Nightwing.”

“Well, neither is dressing up as birds and bats, but you don’t see me saying anything.”

Bruce sighed. “I wish we could do more for him,” he said. “But sometimes what’s best isn’t what we want.”

“He’ll come around,” Dick said. _ A lie. _“Just give him time. Please.”

That was the first night. 

The second night, Dick gave Jason a book, _ The Decameron_. He figured it was a good choice, as it fit in with the other Italian novel and he’d never heard of it before, which meant that Jason was unlikely to have read it.

Jason was only pretending to sleep when he left it by his bedside table. After a few minutes, he woke, or pretended to, stared at the book, then stared at Dick. His voice was plain as day inside Dick’s mind: _ what the fuck is this? _

“It’s August sixteenth,” Dick said. “Robin told me that it’s…happy birthday, I mean. I tried to order one you haven’t read.”

Silence.

“You don’t have to read it. I just figured, since you’ve got nothing else to do…” Dick let himself trail off, watching Jason as he watched the book. _ Please_, he thought, urging him to pick it up. Surely Jason didn’t think he was fooling anyone by acting disinterested. How could anyone do nothing but sit silently for two days? 

Slowly, finally, Jason grabbed the book and began to read. He didn’t say anything, but then again Dick wasn’t expecting him to. He didn’t _ need _him to. 

“Leslie says that you’re healing nicely,” he said. “If you want, we can move you out of here. Get a hotel room, or something. A real bed.”

Jason flipped to a new page. Dick watched the way he wrinkled his brow in concentration, the way his eyes danced from one side of the page to another. _ He would have been in college by now_, he realized. Beneath the bruises, the frown, the muscle, there was a studious young man. Hardly a young man. Twenty-one years old, and dragged through hell twice over. 

Oh god. 

Renewed guilt settled in Dick’s stomach. He pictured Jason in Belmont, sitting with groups on sterile couches, having scheduled _ everything_, being scrutinized by doctors and students in long white coats. Maybe it would work. But more likely, it would be nothing short of a hell—a kinder hell, but a hell nonetheless.

Before he could change his mind, he pulled out his phone and texted Bruce.

_ You put him in Belmont_, he wrote, _ and I’ll take him right out. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert nervous laughter*


	12. Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (current) Hanukkah and merry (belated) Christmas! 
> 
> Apologies for the late chapter - the holidays took a lot out of me, and my new kitten (I got a new kitten!!!) wants too much attention. Who am I to keep from her what she desires? I am but her humble servant. 
> 
> _warnings for this chapter: non-graphic descriptions of murder and abuse, panic attacks, suicidal ideation___

Jason did not know how long he had been held prisoner.

No, that is a lie. He did know: it had been a little over three days since he had woken. Four sunsets, three sunrises. The mission to the docks had taken place on the fourteenth of August. It was now the seventeenth, and he was a twenty-one year-old fuckup with a bullet hole in his chest. Three days, but it felt like an eternity. 

He had to move slowly. Each time he pushed himself out of bed, breathed sharply, turned too quickly, his upper body ignited in pain. Whereas movements were one action before, they had to be broken down into many. He couldn’t just drink water, no. He had to lift his arm, extend his arm, lean forward, grab the water, pull it to his lips, tilt his head back, and drink. And it hurt, and it hurt, and it _ hurt _ , and Nightwing—fucking _ Nightwing_—watched him the entire time, lips pursed in curiosity.

“You’re a fast reader,” the vigilante said, nodding his head toward Jason’s book. “It would have taken me two weeks to get that far.”

Raise arm. Grip page. Turn page. Settle down.

_ Fuck, _ his hand. He was surprised the batarang had not severed his thumb at the base. After he had tried to pull out his stitches—_why _ did he try to pull out his stitches? God damn, he’s so _ stupid_—the doctor only added more, pulling the thread so tightly Jason wondered if she was trying to punish him.

At least someone was.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Nightwing scrolling through his phone. He seemed to be absorbed in it, but Jason could tell from the way his feet were planted firmly on the floor, the way he leaned forward in the chair, that he was ready to jump into action the moment something went wrong. Of course, the broken arm would do him little good. But he’d probably still be stupid enough to try. 

What the hell was wrong with him? In the past day, Nightwing had been too quiet, sending furtive glances at Jason, at the door. Of course, it would figure that they were keeping something from him—why wouldn’t they?—but Jason should have been able to figure it out, read the smug bastard as easily as an Austen novel.

_ Fuck. _Jason wanted to hate him. It was what he should feel. He should scream at him, fight him, try to hurt him. For fuck’s sake, the idiot slept five feet away! It would have been so easy to get up and snap his neck in the middle of the night. So why couldn’t he?

A single voice hissed in the back of his mind. _ Just get up and do it. Get up and do it. Get up, you useless piece of shit. What would Roman say if he saw you like this? _

His stomach lurched. Oh, god. _ Roman. _ No one said anything about who shot him, but he knew. He _ knew _. They all knew. Jason only hesitated for a moment, and he—

_ No thinking. You’re not supposed to think about that. _

Jason settled into himself, ignoring the bile that crept up his throat. His eyes darted around the room as he searched for something else to look at, to focus on. Nope, nope. He’s going to be sick. 

It must have been something about his expression. Nightwing looked over at him with a concern that only made the sickness work. “You alright?” he asked.

_ Fuck you. _Jason kept his mouth closed, trying not to retch. The moment he opened his mouth would be the moment he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Sit still. Look away. Blink. Breathe in. Breathe out. Swallow the saliva pooling around your tongue. Ignore the bastard as he stares at you. 

He thought about his mom, the times she was feeling good and holding him. And his dad, that time he took them both to Haly’s Circus and it was like they were a real family. And the first time he felt healthy after Roman—

Another wave of pain, deep and pulsing, settled in his chest. Was he going to cry? God, that would be so pathetic. He was so pathetic. No wonder Roman didn’t want him. No matter what the stupid Bats said, it _ was _ all his fault. If only he wasn’t so useless, he would have cut the arteries in Nightwing’s throat and let him bleed out at Batman’s feet. Ha! That would have been an image. Maybe, there was still—

No, there wasn’t. Roman shot him. He _ shot _ him. _ Roman. _

_ Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Weak piece of shit. Don’t cry. _

But it wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t—

“Stop!” he forced out, chest heaving. He could feel the movements pull at the stitches, feel hot beads of blood gather around the wound. Maybe he was speaking to Nightwing, who was too close to him. Or maybe he was speaking to himself, or his head, or something else entirely. He didn’t know. All he knew was that his throat was raw, his tongue dry. How long had it been since he had spoken? 

“Are you okay?” Nightwing asked softly.

“Do I _ look _ like I’m fucking okay?” Jason snapped, slapping away an approaching hand. His vision blurred as the walls inside him crumbled. “Leave me the _ fuck _ alone. _ God. _ Why are you even here?”

Nightwing stood back. “To make sure you’re safe,” he replied, as if Jason should know that already. Insufferable know-it-all.

“This is the fucking East End,” Jason said, wiping at his eyes. _ God damn it. _“It’s not fucking safe. You wanna know what I heard outside my window at night?”

“Jason—”

Nope. He had started, and he couldn’t stop. This was what they wanted, wasn’t it? Some sort of therapy session? “You don’t get it,” he muttered, cutting him off. “People like me, we’re the scum of the street. No one wants us. No one_ . _So you can just fuck off back to daddy Bats, okay?”

Nightwing shook his head. “We’re not leaving you.”

_ Liar. Everyone leaves you. Weak piece of shit. _

His tears were spilling freely, running down his cheeks and onto his lips, his tongue. The taste of salt filled him. Instinct told him that he should break him and run. Hit him, kick him, it doesn’t matter. Jason was stronger, a better fighter even with a bullet hole in his chest. Cade had taught him how to bruise, injure, stun, all sorts of actions one blow short of deadly. _ That’s it? _ he’d say, seeing Jason lying abed. _ You’re such a fucking disappointment. _

He should just hit him and run. Hit him and run. _ Hit him and run! _

But he couldn’t. The only thing he could do was cry and pray he wouldn’t throw up, too. “Don’t touch me,” he said, weakly, as the other man drew closer. He mustered up the strength to push him—one, solid shove to the chest—but Nightwing merely stumbled, righted himself, and continued. 

“Look,” he said, dodging a half-assed swipe from Jason, “it _ sucks _, all right? But you need to stop acting like—”

“Like what? A freak?” Jason said softly. “I’m fucked up, man. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“That’s not what I mean. Just listen to me.”

Jason laughed, wiping his eyes on the collar of his tee shirt. “Why the hell would I do that? _ Listen to you _, oh my god…” 

“You don’t get it. You _ have _to stop acting like this.”

“Or what? What am I supposed to do? Pretend I’m not a colossal failure?” His voice broke, and he hissed between his teeth to keep himself from sobbing. Quiet, quiet. Breathe in, breathe out. There you go. 

Nightwing stood back, biting his lip until it was red and puffy. He looked somewhere between wanting to cry and constipated, and if Jason had any life left in him he would have laughed at the expression. Instead, he lay there, staring blankly.

_ Weak piece of shit. No wonder Roman tried to kill you. _

Without warning, Nightwing erupted. “They want to send you to a recovery center,” he blurted out. “The others, I mean. Robin and…and _ him. _They think it’s the best way for you to…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he held himself. 

Jason blinked. When he tried to respond, the only thing that left his mouth was a confused huff. 

“I know.” The vigilante nodded solemnly. “I didn’t think…that kind of thing doesn’t work on people like—people who have been through a lot.”

His hesitation was brief, but Jason did not miss it. _ People like us. He was going to say, ‘people like us.’ _Again he waited for himself to burn with anger at the mere suggestion that the two of them were alike, but nothing came. He was empty.

“We want to help you,” Nightwing continued. “_ I _want to help you. I know you can’t imagine why, but it’s the truth. You don’t deserve anything that has happened to you.”

_ Liar. _

“You said that already,” Jason muttered. He rubbed his eyes, trying to force away the wetness, and only succeeded in spreading it around his face. Pathetic. He’s so fucking _ pathetic. _

Nightwing shrugged. “There’s only so much I can say when you don’t talk to me. You don’t deserve this.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Then say it back to me. ‘I don’t deserve this.’”

“Don’t treat me like a child. Please, don’t.”

“Jason, if you don’t make an effort, they’re going to send you _ away, _” Nightwing said. “Do you want me to let them?”

He wanted to say _ yes, _ if only to make himself feel worse. Let them take him to a fucking recovery center, where he’d feel like shit and wouldn’t get any better and could just wallow in how fucking _ miserable _he is while yelling at idiots in white coats who tried to change that. Which, obviously, they couldn’t. But if he said yes, Nightwing would know that he was lying. So he stayed silent. The strategy seemed to work the last few days. Why shouldn’t it work now?

When he didn’t speak, Nightwing sighed deeply. “Really? Again?”

Silence.

“Alright, I get it. You’re confused, and frustrated, and god knows what else. But it’s not really fair for you to take it out on me,” he said, gesturing to the cast on his arm, then to the thin red line across his neck. “All things considered, you know?” 

_ Weak piece of shit. _

The vigilante watched him for a moment. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, judging from the way his brow tightened and relaxed, the way his jaw clenched so firmly that his face seemed to be made of tight angles. It made him remember the night at the docks, how Nightwing pressed him against the metal, his body warm and smelling sweet and rich. A bitter memory. And yet, Jason could still admit that Nightwing’s was a face something John Singer Sargent would have loved to paint.

_ Painting, _he thought. Why did that tug at the back of his mind, sinking a hook into a memory? 

“Would it help,” Nightwing said at last, “if I told you that I’m mad at you?”

Thoughts of paintings: gone.

“Don’t get me wrong, I _ am _ mad. This?” He held up his arm, showing off the cast once more. “This is gonna be a pain in my ass for at least another week. And this?” His neck. “Stings like a bitch. And _ you? _” Again he points, this time at Jason. “Fuck you for lying. I trusted you, asshole.”

“You shouldn’t have trusted me.”

“Yeah. Fuck_ me _for believing you, right?”

Jason didn’t say anything.

“You think that’s funny?” Nightwing shook his head, anger—_ genuine anger _ —written over his face. “I _ trusted you, _Jason. I wanted you to help us, help yourself. And then you just…and now you’re just…” He let out a shaky breath, and Jason felt a shock run through him. 

_ He’s crying? No. He’s furious. _

This is what he wanted, right? He wanted Nightwing to get angry, to hit him, to hurt him. But now that it was happening, he felt…nothing. Everything pushed down on his shoulders, and his eyes filled again, and he couldn’t cry and he couldn’t cry and—

Nightwing hated him. Everyone hated him. And Roman tried to kill him.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Nightwing said quickly. “I thought, maybe it would help if I—”

“No,” Jason said. He kept his face turned away, in case the tears started to fall. _ Weak piece of shit. _“You’re right. I’m a liar and a killer, and you should just throw me in Blackgate where I belong.”

“You’re a victim, Jay. If it weren’t for Roman, you never would have been in this mess.”

“If it weren’t for Roman, I’d be dead.”

Nightwing swore, running his hands through his dark hair. “They—Batman and Robin—they’re coming to bring you to the center,” he said. “Tonight. ”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. Because if _ he _tried to send me away, even if I needed it, I’d only get worse.”

“Why do you even care?”

Nightwing took a deep breath, shaking his head. Then, he said, “Because I care about you.” 

Jason stared, one word ringing in his ears. _ Liar. Liar. Liar. _

“And they do too,” Nightwing said. “But they don’t know you like I know you.” He raised his good arm, cutting Jason off before he could reply. “And yeah, I guess I don’t know you as well as I thought I did, but…remember how you judged me? At the warehouse?”

There was nothing for Jason to say. He was just so _ tired. _

Nightwing smiled his beautiful smile. “Well, two can play at that game. I know that you like to read and you’re good at it. You pretend not to care that you’re good, but you do. Actually,” he said, laughing softly, “I think you care about a lot of things, but you’re too afraid to let it show.”

After a moment, Jason muttered, “Well, aren’t you smart.”

“I do my best.”

“Your best isn’t very good.” 

Nightwing shrugged. “It’s not my job to be the world’s greatest detective.”

Why was he being kind? He should _ hate _Jason, should be gloating over his failure. Hell, minutes ago he was angry, furious even. If Jason had pissed off Cade, or Sears, or Roman this badly… 

His hands instinctively went for the thin, fish-bone scars along his chest and collarbone. Nightwing watched him, possibly by chance, possibly because he was aware of what Jason was thinking. _ You’re a victim, Jay, _he had said. 

Bullshit. Jason would not be a victim. He grew up on the streets of East End. He fought and clawed his way through fights and muggings, from the hands of people who would hurt him in ways he couldn’t even imagine. He chose to go with Roman, chose to keep fighting when his men would beat him down. He became stronger, a weapon. He was bruised, stabbed, starved, and still he kept fighting. Knock him down, and he will rise.

“Fine,” he said.

Nightwing gave him a look: _ Fine, what? _

Jason huffed as he swung his legs off of the bed, flinching as his feet met the floor. It was impossibly cold, and for a split second he wondered if his soles would freeze to the tile, but then his mind returned to him and he cursed himself for being so stupid. 

“Fine,” he said again. “I’m not going to a fucking psych ward.”

A light shone behind Nightwing’s eyes, and the voices in Jason’s head returned, telling him that he was playing into their trap, that he was too stupid to see the monster behind the mask.

_ Remember who the real enemy is, _ they said. _ Remember what they allow themselves to do to people. Or have you chosen to forget? Weak piece of— _

A pair of boots landed in his arms. “Here,” Nightwing said, casting a glance out the window. The sky was streaked pink and orange, backlighting the apartment complexes and alleyways of the East End. Somewhere inside the shadows and the dirt was his old home, where his dad was arrested, where his mom overdosed. And further still, there was the apartment he left when Roman took him from the streets. 

But Jason didn’t think about these things. Instead, he thought about Nightwing, whether it was a foolish idea to trust him, whether he was a greater fool for not killing him right then and there. _ Strike first, talk later, _Cade told him once, though his words brought heat to Jason’s face.

_ Fuck it _ , he thought, tying the laces of the boots. _ I’m a piece of shit but I’m not fucking weak. _

♟♟♟

They were halfway out of the East End when Jason had to stop. A deep ache had settled in his chest, originating at the bullet wound and spreading toward his neck and shoulders. He bent over, gasping for air even though they were hardly running. Fluid welled up around his tongue; he spit it onto the cement.

“Don’t,” he hissed, when Nightwing tried to touch his back. Straightening, he sent him a hard look. _ This between us, it’s temporary at best. Don’t push it. _

“Just making sure you’re not coughing up blood,” Nightwing replied.

Jason huffed. “I’ve been injured before,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” The vigilante leaned against the brick wall of an apartment building, legs crossed casually. Somewhere deeper in the city, a siren wailed. He turned his head slightly toward the sound, bit his lip, then slowly looked back at Jason. 

Of course. He thought it was his duty to intervene. How noble. 

“You can go chase it,” Jason said. “I’ll stay right here.”

_ Leave me alone, and no one will ever have to deal with me again. Just let me go. _

Nightwing laughed. “Yeah, right. Like I can trust you to do that. Besides,” he said, shrugging. “It’s an ambulance siren, and you know it. 

“I broke into an ambulance, once. Knocked out the EMTs and shot the guy in the gurney.” Jason paused, remembering the sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with saline and ammonia. The idiot should never had tried to sell Roman’s information to Cobblepot. And Jason should have killed him before the EMTs got involved. “Guy couldn’t even fight back. He was strapped in, staring down the barrel of my gun. Then _ pow! _” He mimed shooting. “Dead.”

Silence followed. Jason looked to the other man, expecting to see shock on his face, or some kind of fear, but there was nothing of that kind. Nightwing merely stared back, head cocked slightly, full lips parted in curiosity, or maybe sadness.

“I’m sorry you had to do that, Jason,” he said. 

Jason let out an exasperated laugh. “Don’t be fucking sorry. I did it. It’s done. There’s nothing anyone can do about it now.”

After the words left him, he waited one second, two seconds, for Nightwing to make a comment. Come on. He _ had _to be shocked. Maybe he was even worried for Jason’s soul or some shit. 

But he said nothing. He dragged his finger along the brick, then sighed deeply. “Ready to keep moving?” he asked.

Jason grunted, straightening his spine. His lips curled into a grimace. “Whatever.”

“You sure? I don’t want you to tear your stitches. Never did learn how to stitch someone up, and we can’t exactly take you back to Leslie.”

A sudden wave of clarity washed over Jason. This…_ thing _ that Nightwing was doing for him—whatever it was—it was not at all what Batman had planned. Nightwing was ignoring the Bat’s wishes, going against the rules, for _ Jason. _Fuck. Either he was incredibly stupid, or the rift between him and Batman was even worse than Jason had imagined. 

“Do you always disobey Daddy Bats?” he asked. “Or am I just special?”

Nightwing scoffed once, then started walking quickly down the street, sticking to the shadows like an alley cat. “Of course you’re not special,” he said. “Pret—handsome spies try to kill me every month.”

The dark sky concealed the redness of his cheeks. For this, he was grateful. The last thing he’d want is to let Nightwing know which unfunny shticks make him uncomfortable. _ He flirts with everyone, _ he reminded himself. _ This is what Nightwing is known for _.

Gritting his teeth, Jason followed, ignoring the pain in his chest. _ Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. _He couldn’t for a moment let himself believe that the vigilante liked him, because that couldn’t be true. Nightwing didn’t like him; Nightwing thought he could fix him. There was a world of difference. 

But maybe this could be a good thing. All he needed to do was stick with Nightwing until he could get out, get better, and…and… 

Well. That was the question, wasn’t it?

“There’s a woman I know,” Nightwing explained, even though Jason had not yet asked. “Dinah. She’s…she’s good. I think you’d like her.”

_ Great. _“So you’re setting me up with another babysitter.”

“Not at all. Just someone you’d be safe with.” 

Jason stared blankly.

“It’s the best I can do,” Nightwing offered.

“You could just let me disappear. Tell the Bat I got away.”

“You’re funny.”

Jason hummed, struggling to keep up with Nightwing’s pace. “Where is this woman? Dinah?”

“Star City.”

“So we’re walking to Star City.”

“Nope.” 

In the distance, the headlights of a beat-up car flashed twice. Jason’s heart leapt. A month ago, when he was researching Nightwing and Robin, he would have killed to have found a car belonging to either of them. _ Maybe, _ he thought, _ maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I still can find out their identities, and maybe Roman— _

His hope vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Nope. No good. The license plates had been removed. Recently too, judging from the toolbox on the front seat. 

“Get in,” Nightwing said, ducking into the driver’s seat. 

Jason complied. The interior of the car, too, had been wiped of evidence. Judging from the scent, it had been detailed recently, maybe even hours before. _ Odd. _

“Could’ve gotten a flashier model,” the vigilante said, starting the engine. “But I didn’t want to be too flashy, you get me?”

“Hmm.”

“It’s cool, Jay. You can laugh.”

“Stop that,” Jason snapped.

“Stop what?” 

“All of it. Acting all concerned. Giving me nicknames. That—” He motioned vaguely. “—flirting thing. It’s fucking annoying.”

“What?” Nightwing asked, innocently. “You don’t like nicknames, Jay?”

“Shut up.”

“I would have thought, a guy like you—”

“You don’t know me,” Jason said angrily, leaning into the window to stare at the shadows. Why couldn’t he be angry again? It felt so _ good _ to have someone yelling at him, blaming him for the things that were his fault. He deserved it. He _ deserved _ it. _ He deserved it. _And perhaps if Nightwing knew just how much he deserved it, this thing between them would be severed for good.

So he started talking.

He said, “I poisoned a man at a candidate’s dinner.”

He said, “I slit a woman’s throat in the ladies’ room at the cathedral. I’m pretty sure one of the nuns found her body.”

He said, “I fucked a _ patsan _in the Odessa Mob. Then I killed him. Broke his neck.” 

And when those didn’t work, he said, “I strangled a woman while her toddler was crying in the other room. Would have killed the kid too, if I didn’t have a time constraint.”

It was a partial lie. He _ had _ killed a woman with a small child—though she was dealing shit to kids, so he was hard-pressed to call her a _ mother _—but the kid wasn’t there. He made sure of that. Roman never liked witnesses.

“It’s good that you’re talking,” Nightwing said, after a moment. 

“This isn’t a fucking therapy session.”

“Well I’d hope so, seeing as I’m not a licensed therapist. Though I could recommend you one, if you’re looking.” He paused for a second, then added, “But seriously. Jason.”

Warm fingers wrapped around Jason’s arm. Instinct told him to yank himself away, to throw a punch, jump from the car, and run until his breath hitched and his chest bled and he collapsed, finally, into the street. But Nightwing’s hand was warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the chill of the night. Jason could not remember the last time someone had touched him in such a way. No matter how hard he searched his brain, he came up empty, and his instincts were won over by stupor.

“I am so, so sorry Black Mask made you do those things,” Nightwing said. “Really.”

With a start, Jason came back to himself and yanked his arm away. The raw air bit his skin. “You want to know the best part?” he asked. “I don’t even care. How great is that?”

Nightwing said nothing, but his face said enough: _ I don’t believe you _.

“I don’t care,” Jason said again, and charged forward into the shadows. He closed his eyes, letting the thick air caress his face. In his mind, he pictured himself killing the man in the ambulance, replaying the scene over and over until the sound of his gun caused his chest to flare up in pain. It was a mistake; this he knew even when he pulled the trigger. Roman wanted the man alive for questioning, but Jason knew what Roman did to traitors, and because he was sixteen and stupid he let the man die instead. After, Roman had Sears break the bones in Jason’s left hand, but it was still better, because Jason knew he could take it and that the man would not have. His death was a mercy.

_ Death is a mercy. _

Jason’s blood ran cold. 

“He knew I wouldn’t die,” he muttered.

“What?”

Clearing his throat, he tried again. “He knew I wouldn’t die,” Jason said. “He didn’t want me to die. It would be too easy for me. I failed him, and I deserve—he wouldn’t want it to be quick.”

“He? Black Mask?” Nightwing asked, as Jason whipped his head around, searching the streets for the flash of light against steel, dark headlights in the shadows. Nothing. 

_ Stupid, weak piece of shit. _

Breathing slowly to calm his heart, Jason settled back into the seat of the car. His bullet wound throbbed in time with his pulse. He steadied his breath, or tried to, only to find that it would not keep still. Choking. He was choking, but he was breathing, but he was choking. It was as if the universe were ending around him. Alone. Dark. Bad thoughts. 

_ Roman is going to hurt me. I’m alive but I’m dead. They should have let me drown in the bay. Death is a mercy. Roman knows I’m with them and he is going to hurt me more than he has ever hurt me before. Weak piece of shit. _

“Jason?”

He tried to respond. Really, he did. But his throat was closed off and his hands were shaking, and if he tried to speak he knew his words would either be a whisper or a scream.

Somewhere beyond him, he was aware of Nightwing pulling the car over. A door slammed. His was flung open. “Jason,” Nightwing said again. He knelt by Jason’s side, resting his hands on his knees. “What’s one hundred minus three?”

“Wha—what?”

“One hundred minus three.”

_ There’s a bullet hole in my chest and I’m drowning and Roman hates me and— _

“Ninety...seven,” he gasped.

“Cool,” Nightwing said. “Keep subtracting three.”

_ Ninety-seven minus three, that’s… _“Ninety-four.”

“Great job, buddy.”

“Ninety-one.”

Slowly, his breath returned to him. By the time he reached seventy-six, his heart no longer hammered against his tongue. Jason inhaled deeply, looked down, and saw that Nightwing’s hands were over his. 

“Fuck off,” he hissed, yanking them away.

Standing, Nightwing laughed. “Glad to see you’re back to normal,” he said. “You get panic attacks often?”

“I don’t get panic attacks. I just…” Jason bit his lip.

“What?” 

“We need to leave,” he finished. “Now.” 

He must have appeared serious, because Nightwing didn’t add anything stupid. He merely got back in the car, started the engine, and thrust a bottle of water into Jason’s arms. 

“You’ve got to be thirsty,” he said. “Attacks like that, they leave you reeling.”

“It wasn’t a panic attack,” Jason muttered. He didn’t _ get _panic attacks. 

“Just drink the water.”

“Just drive the damn car.”

“Alright,” Nightwing said, and the car sputtered to life. As he pulled back onto the road, he pointed out the windshield. “Look,” he said. “An owl.”

Jason caught the edge of a wing disappearing into the night. “An owl,” he repeated.

“I mean, I’ve never been a fan of owls, but they’re certainly pretty.”

For the second time that night, something tugged at Jason’s memory. He sipped at the water, letting it rest around his tongue before swallowing. _ Owls… What was it about owls? _

Another car passed them on the road. Jason froze, then breathed a sigh of relief when the tail lights disappeared in the rear view mirror. Just a car. It was just a car. 

As sick as it made him feel, Jason wondered if Roman meant for him to have a quick death. After all, he was his favorite weapon, right? Even if he was blunt and warped, maybe Roman would treat him with kindness. Wouldn’t he?

Another sip of water. Jason sank lower in his seat, wondering.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the plot is finally going somewhere! This should be the last slow chapter until the end (_should_ be...no promises lol). 
> 
> See you all in 2020!


	13. Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I looked up where Star City is supposed to be, and it turns out that the answer is "everywhere but most recently California." Yeah. Let's just say it's in the Chicago area, okay?
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: references to sex, brief mentions of csa, violence_

They didn’t make it to Star City. That’s the first thing Jason noticed. Of course, it should have been obvious. He didn’t really know what Nightwing was thinking, acting like they could make the thirteen hour drive without a hitch. The last thing he remembered was the vigilante was holding the steering wheel in a death grip, as if it were the only thing tethering him to consciousness.

The second thing Jason noticed was that he woke in a hotel room. Motel room, actually. Scratched wooden furniture, ugly patterned bedspreads, dim yellow lighting. Typical pay-by-the-hour shit. Jason had woken up in dozens of these before, after getting so black-out wasted that he couldn’t remember faces or touches or where the bruises came from.

_ Fuck. _With a start he sat up, vision darkening as the blood rushed to his head. It didn’t surprise him to see that he was still wearing clothes—Nightwing didn’t strike him as the type to undress people, even in an act of kindness—though he was surprised to see that the other bed was empty. He was alone.

Mostly alone. Through the bathroom door, he could hear the shower running. Jason swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to make noise as he walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. Forest, far as the eye could see. If he put his ear to the cool glass, he could hear the distant roar of a highway. It was bright enough outside: the only darkness came from the hills and trees—rich, vibrant trees, unlike any Jason had ever seen in Gotham. The world was a lot greener than he could have imagined.

If he had to guess, he’d say they were somewhere near the border of New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Of course, it was hard to tell. Jason had never left Gotham County before. Hell, he’d never left _ Gotham. _ Roman didn’t want him coming on business trips, and so Jason stayed back, alone, waiting for him to return from China or Russia or Brazil or wherever. _ I don’t want you for your brain, _ Roman had said. _ You’d be useless to me. _

Well. Joke’s on him, isn’t it? Turns out Jason was useless either way. Or maybe the joke was on Jason.

He closed the curtain, eyeing the deadbolt on the door, the jacket Nightwing had left so conspicuously on a wicker chair. _ What the hell am I doing? _

Strike that.

_ What the hell am I doing _here?

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember how they had ended up here. They were in the car, and he couldn’t breathe, and Nightwing helped him through his _ episode _, and then…

Did he fall asleep? That can’t be it. He remembers staring out the window for a while, then staring at Nightwing, watching his knuckles tighten around the steering wheel, as if it were the only thing tethering him to consciousness. And then getting out of the car… and then falling into something soft…

His heart rate slowed. So they got a motel room and fell asleep. How boring.

It would have been interesting, Jason figured, if they had fucked. Now _ that _would have been something. The ex-Boy Wonder, in bed with a murderous piece of shit like Jason. Practically something out of an erotic thriller. Except that would never happen, because Nightwing was a Nice Guy. Tuck a drunk girl into bed guy. Text you pictures of puppies guy.

Or at least, he pretended to be.

The water shut off. _ Fuck. _What was he doing, standing around when he could have been getting away? Quickly and quietly—well, mostly quietly—Jason stumbled around the room, checking Nightwing’s jacket, the space behind the radiator, beneath the nightstand. Nothing.

“Come on, come on, come on!” he muttered. He ran his fingers over the top of the doorway, searching for the telltale _ clink _of keys. A minute, tops, until Nightwing comes back. That’s all he needed. A minute. Then he’d disappear. Roman would never find him, never find Nightwing, never torture either of them until they knew just how merciful Death could be. Just one minute.

Too bad he had less.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, letting steam spill into the room. Nightwing stepped out, wearing sweats and that stupid mask, his hair still dripping water on his bare chest. He stopped once when he saw Jason, who stared pointedly at the carpet, then continued on.

“I’m getting tired of wearing this,” he said, pointing to his face. “Any longer, and I’ll get an awkward tan line.”

“Then take it off.”

Nightwing clicked his tongue. “That was very forward of you, Mr. Todd. But you’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

Jason scoffed. _ Stupid flirt, _he thought.

“How are you feeling?” the vigilante asked, pulling his shirt off the back of a chair. The muscles of his back rippled with the movement, drawing Jason’s eyes across his skin and down to the ridges of his hip bones, the small trail of hair that began at his belly button and fell down to—

The image of Nightwing, bruised and bloody and _ dying _beneath Roman’s fists, shot across his mind. Jason looked away, swallowing the heaviness at the back of his tongue. “Fine.”

The vigilante let out a chuckle as he shoved his shirt over his head. The fabric hid his skin, but not the swell of muscles along his abdomen. “Say what you will about motels,” he said, “but their showers beat hospital showers every day.”

“Where are we?” Jason asked.

“Just outside of Denver.”

“Colorado?”

“No,” Nightwing laughed. “Pennsylvania, dummy.”

“Right.” Of course.

_ Pennsylvania…that’s three hours from Gotham, right? Not far enough. Not _ nearly _ far enough. _

“I thought it was best to stop,” Nightwing explained. “Hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a while, and there was no way in hell we were gonna make it to Star City overnight.”

Jason grunted.

“Besides, you started muttering how my driving would ‘kill both of us,’ so it was probably time to pull over, you know?”

_ Kill both of us. _That didn’t sound like Jason, unless it was more of an observation than a fear: if the car rolled and crushed him beneath steel plates, he didn’t think he would care. As long as it was quick.

Or maybe he wasn’t talking about the driving.

“Anyway,” Nightwing said, falling back on his bed. He stared at his cast, picking at the plaster. “You were pretty unconscious there.”

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Jason said dryly. The stitches in his chest began to itch.

“Ha! I’d say. Are you hungry?”

He was, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Maybe it was best to get used to not eating, with the likelihood that Roman was looking for him. It would be one less thing Roman could use against him. He could beat him, cut him, shoot him, but at least he would not be able to starve him. Not again.

“You okay?” Nightwing asked.

Jason shuffled on his feet, sending an accusatory glance toward the other man. “Why?”

“You just have a look on your face.”

“Keep your fucking eyes to yourself.”

Nightwing's jaw twitched. “Well, screw me for being concerned, right?” he snapped. "You were only having a fucking panic attack last night."

"I'm _fine." _

"Yeah. Sure," Nightwing muttered, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. The yellow lights made his eyes seem almost green, like water in the tropics. When he looked at Jason again, his brow was furrowed. 

“What?” Jason asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not. It’s not _your_ fault you didn’t know Pennsylvania had a Denver.”

Jason laughed bitterly. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t work?”

“Being nice to me. I know you’re just trying to ‘fix me’ or whatever shit you people do. It never works.”

“What’s wrong with trying to fix things?” Nightwing asked, giving him a punchable sort of grin. “I mean, do you hate plumbers and mechanics too, or am I special?”

Jason grit his teeth to keep from lashing out. “There’s a difference between fixing things you understand and trying to fix the things you don’t. And believe me,” he said, staring at a cobweb caught in the corner of the ceiling, “you don’t understand _ anything._”

The stupid grin reappeared, though it seemed to be acting more as a diguise than anything else. Nightwing's eyes churned with something dark. Anger? Hurt? “I’d say I at least understand basic algebra," he said quietly. 

“Then fix algebra, not Gotham,” Jason replied, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. Too small, too tight, hiking up his biceps like some sort of discount stripper.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

His sleeves wouldn’t stay down. Jason tugged once, forcefully. No use. “_ You _ don’t make any sense,” he said. “You and—and _ him, _you use fear to control the afraid, instead of freeing them from the systems that make them what they are!”

“What are you saying?”

“People steal because they’re hungry!” Jason hissed. Heat rose in his cheeks, billowed in his chest, urged him to _ shout _ and _ claw _ and _ hurt _ . “They fight to protect their family! They join gangs because it’s the only chance they have! And you fucking vigilantes _ beat _them for it! At least Roman didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t!”

A moment of shocked silence stretched into a minute. Jason’s heart raced inside him, keeping time to the beat of thoughts inside his head. Part of him wanted Nightwing to _ try _ to deny it, to say that _ we’re good people _ and _ you can’t believe what Roman has told you. _But another, larger part of him wondered if he was wrong. After all, Jason watched Roman lie over and over again, to businessmen and politicians and lawyers. Who was to say he wasn’t lying to Jason? Nightwing didn’t seem like a violent person, not when he has gone so far out of his way to help him.

_ Oh, fuck. _And Jason couldn’t even be grateful for it.

He sat back on his bed. The mattress squeaked beneath his weight as he fell back, his head landing on a deflated, flimsy pillow. “And now, I don’t…I don’t even know if that’s true,” he muttered. “If any of it’s true. I just…don’t know.”

Nightwing was watching him. Jason didn’t look up, but he knew that Nightwing was watching him. He could feel the cool brush of his eyes over his skin. But he could not meet his gaze. He knew that it would be soft, and that it would make him vomit.

“What exactly,” Nightwing began, “did Black Mask tell you? About Batman.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The facts say otherwise.”

Jason snorted.

“What?”

“You sounded like Batman,” he said. “_The facts say otherwise. _God.”

"I'm nothing like him."

"You sure about that?"

“Answer the question,” Nightwing demanded. His face was hard. “What did he tell you?”

Jason’s fingers found the sheets and drew them into his fists, squeezing until the fabric fought back against his palms. He thought about living alone in East End, listening to tales of the Batman rescuing everyone but him. About Roman, who put a gun to his head and told him he had a choice. About room 513, and the man in the bed; the mercy he was denied. About the feeling of the needle in his hands.

His stomach lurched.

“Roman took me to the clinic,” he said, in a voice so soft it barely exceeded a whisper. “He showed me someone—Jeffrey—and he said…he said that Batman did it.”

Nightwing leaned toward him. “Did what, Jason?”

_ Broken jaw. Both eyes, bruised and swollen. Shattered bones. Bruised limbs. Torn skin. And the blood and the blood and the blood and the— _

“Jason?”

“He was beaten into a coma,” Jason said. “A civilian caught up in the poverty game. Everything was broken. Smashed. Whatever. Just…” He made a crushing motion, willing away the thought of the man’s face. That was over seven years ago. Why did it start hurting now?

“And Black—and Roman said that Batman did it,” Nightwing said.

Jason acknowledged him with a gesture. He could hear Nightwing stand and walk over to him, could hear the brush of his knee against the carpet as he knelt. _ Don’t give me that bullshit, _he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. So he settled on, “Don’t touch me.”

Nightwing’s hands remained at his sides. “I need you to understand something,” he said, softly but firmly. “I haven’t always agreed with Batman—hell, we’ve probably disagreed more than we’ve agreed lately—and I know that what we do is technically illegal and definitely in the ‘grey area’ of morality.” At this he smiled, chuckling nervously. “But you’ve got to understand. I _ trust _ him, and I _ know _ that he would never, _ ever _, beat innocent people into comas.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Nightwing said. “I’ve been his sidekick half my life, and I’ve only ever seen him lose it when members of his family have been hurt. And even then…” He shrugged, then sighed loudly. “He can be a real bastard, but he’s got the self-control of a Tibetan monk.”

Jason fell silent. He wanted to believe him like people want to believe good news: all hope and trust, able to overcome the burden of experience in the background. But that hurdle felt too high. He couldn’t jump, not yet.

Nightwing continued. “Besides, do you really think we can’t differentiate between Scarecrow and Joe Random? I mean, shit.”

“You’re not the sharpest tool,” he muttered.

“Fuck off.” Nightwing smacked him lightly on the shoulder, so quickly that Jason hardly had time to register it before the vigilante started apologizing. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I meant it in a friendly way, but…yeah. Shouldn’t have touched you.”

_ God damn it. _Jason sat up, glaring. “Stop,” he said sharply.

“Stop what?”

“Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Just because my life is shit, doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. Hell,” he said, gesturing at himself, the room around them. “I’m used to this fucking mess.”

“Alright. No glass. Got it.”

“Do you know how frustrating it is, being looked at like a dying puppy? Don’t answer that,” Jason added, before the vigilante could say something stupid. “Of course you don’t. Because you’re fucking _ Robin. _”

Nightwing's eyes narrowed. His upper lip curled; not a sneer, but close. "You don't know _anything_ about me." 

“I know enough.”

"Fuck off," the vigilante said again, though this time his voice was not as kind. 

Jason huffed and stared at the lines in his palms, thinking about his research into the Boy Wonder. “I did some research into you, you know,” he said. “For a bit I wondered if Batman took you off the street. But knowing you, you’re no street rat.”

Nightwing crossed his arms over his chest. “What made you think that?”

“It’s just an observation. When you grow up on the street, you learn to carry suspicion in your back pocket.” He paused for a moment, staring across the motel room at nothing in particular. “That woman asking if you have a home? Doesn’t really care. That guy offering you food? A sick fuck looking to bag a kid. And that cop asking if you’re okay? He gets off on beating the homeless.” Twisting his fingers together, Jason said, “You? You’re too hopeful. Too adjusted.”

"Am I." 

“Well, you do fight bad guys in spandex,” Jason replied. A sickness lingered in his lower abdomen, as if it knew he was remembering the ghosts of sweaty hands on his skin. Sixty percent of homeless kids will be raped, robbed., or assaulted before the age of eighteen. Jason was lucky. Despite all the catcalls, all the times he slipped through the arms of would-be rapists, the worst he received was bruises, and the most he ever lost was petty cash. And then Roman took him in, and—

_ Hit me. Starved me. Shot me. _

What would Roman do when he wasn’t playing nice?

Nightwing threaded his fingers into a knot. He smelled like cheap shampoo, cucumbers and melon and shit, but in a way it was pleasant. “You're right,” he said sharply, almost bitterly, as if it pained him to say it. “Batman didn’t take me off the street. He saved me from it.”

Saying nothing, Jason turned to look at the vigilante, urging him to continue. For once he didn’t feel like he was on a mission to elicit information; rather, something inside him ached to know Nightwing’s story.

“I was just a kid,” he continued. “My parents died unexpectedly. We weren’t from Gotham, I didn’t have family or money or connections. If it weren’t for Batman, I would have gone to a foster home.” He stopped to laugh softly, though there was little humor in it. “And the market’s not exactly high for Romani kids, you know?”

"Cry me a river. You had a home."

"Right. Because that's _all _that matters, isn't it." Nightwing laughed forcefully. "You don't have a monopoly on tragic backstories, _Jason Peter Todd." _

"Oh, so Batman threatened to shoot you?" Jason asked, his face heating. "Did he break your bones when your work was shit? Did he ask you to blackmail? Torture? Kill?" 

Nightwing flew to his feet. "Just because my problems are different, it doesn't mean they hurt any less! I mean, _God!" _he shouted, kicking the side of his bed. His pillows jumped. Then everything was still, save for the heaving of Nightwing's chest. He clenched and unclenched his fists until his arms softened, then his shoulders, then his face.

Jason watched it all as if looking at a documentary: not thinking, not feeling, just observing and absorbing. "Fine," he said at last. "Is this the part where I ask you about your problems?"

"I don't want to talk about my problems."

"Really? I can list some of mine." His laughter was touched with venom. "You know he used to make me sleep with people for information? He found out I liked men, and ta da! I'm his little whore. Isn't that fun!"

That seemed to give Nightwing pause. His posture softened; he sat back down on the bed. "I'm sorry." 

"I'm sure you are."

"Really." 

Jason shrugged. It was over now. Just another item to add to the list of _ Why Jason Todd is Fucked Up._

“This woman in Star City,” he said. “Dana, or whatever.”

“Dinah.”

“Dinah. She’s going to make me talk about all my shit, isn’t she?”

Nightwing scrunched up his face. “‘Make’ is a strong word,” he said. “She won’t ‘make’ you do anything you’re not ready to do.”

_ Jesus Christ. _“I don’t want to do anything. I’m just trying to disappear.”

“I know. I’m trying to help—”

“That’s what you think.”

“I'm not_ perfect _ , but you _ have _ to trust—”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do.”

Again Nightwing jumped to his feet. “What the hell is _wrong _with you?” he demanded, lips curling. “I’m trying to help you find a place in this world, and you won’t let me finish a goddamn _sentence!”_

“Oh, now you’re angry again,” Jason spat, standing to meet the vigilante’s eyes. In a way, it was a dare: _ do something, you uptight son of a bitch. _“Or is this just another ploy to get me to like you?”

A strong hand shoved him back. Even with half his strength, Nightwing was strong enough to push Jason off-balance. “Fuck you,” he snarled.

“Fuck _ you, _” Jason shot back, throwing his weight into the vigilante’s body. His shoulder made awkward contact with Nightwing’s chest, sending them both tumbling to the hard surface of the floor. Dull pain shot up both his knees while a sharper pain settled around the bullet wound. Before he could stand again, Nightwing was on top of him, pinning him to the carpet. Legs wrapped around his torso; good hand poised above his throat.

“Don’t think _ this _makes me weak,” he snapped, motioning to his cast. “I’ve never feared getting hurt. Did you really think I wouldn’t get hurt, breaking you out, huh? I know what’s at stake, and I still chose to do this.”

Jason pushed against Nightwing’s body, but was held fast by the man’s legs. “You don’t know what's at stake,” he said, gasping under the weight. “He knows how to hurt people. _ Really _hurt people.”

“Black Mask.”

“Yes!”

Nightwing cocked his head. The anger on his face softened, revealing something akin to suspicion, or maybe disgust. “You think he’s coming after you.”

Finally, Jason’s hands found the vigilante’s center of gravity. With a grunt, he shoved Nightwing off of him and scrambled upright, staring down at the man on the carpet. “I _ know _he’s coming after me. He wouldn’t just let me go!”

“Jay,” Nightwing said, pulling himself into a sitting position. The fury in his eyes had lessened, though his lips were still tight, his brow still furrowed. “He didn’t let you go. He _ shot _you.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Jason said sharply, fingers brushing over his chest. His shirt hid the bandages from view, but he could still make them out, raised strips over an area of concentrated pain.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

Nightwing sighed loudly, then ran his hands through his dark hair. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Don't fucking apologize for touching me. I’m not made of glass.”

“I'm not apologizing. And I didn’t touch you. I hit you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m used to being hit.”

“Jason—”

“No,” he said. “You need to know what Roman does to people. What he’ll do to you, if you don’t let me go.” Jason paused a moment, then, in one quick motion, pulled his shirt over his head.

“What the—You don’t need to do this,” Nightwing said. He made a show of not looking at Jason, or rather, looked at Jason then pretended that he hadn’t.

Jason pointed at a scar right below the left side of his ribcage. A stark silver line, only a few inches long, but ragged as the blade of a serrated knife. “This?” he said. “This I got when I was learning how to use a sniper rifle. Missed the target too many times. And this?” A burn above his right pectoral muscle. “Talked back to my trainer.”

“That’s horrible.”

“I was lucky,” he replied, clutching his shirt until his knuckles were bloodless. They were words he had often told himself, when things became rough: _ You’re lucky you didn’t die on the streets. You’re lucky you have a place to sleep. Food to eat. You’re lucky you have Roman to protect you. _Though now, saying them to Nightwing, seeing the shock on his face, they felt hollow. Jason shoved the feeling to the back of his mind.

“Can you imagine,” he asked, “what Roman will do to me now? What he’ll do to the people that keep me from him?”

Nightwing shook his head. Standing, he said, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“It’s going to happen,” Jason said, “because it always does. And I…I’m a piece of shit that _ deserves _ it. But you—” He stopped suddenly, chewing the inside of his cheek, and avoided Nightwing’s gaze. _ Don’t say it, _ he thought, because he could see the words forming on the vigilante’s lips, the _ it’s not your fault _that he could never quite believe.

A hand wrapped around his own. It was warm and smooth, despite the thick calluses below the fingers. Jason looked down at the hand, then up at Nightwing. _ Here we go, _ he thought bitterly, though it ran hollow in his head. The hand felt… _ nice. _

“You deserve to have a life of your own,” Nightwing said. “You can admit that much, right?”

“If it’s my life, why are you so invested with it? Mind your own business.”

Nightwing raised an eyebrow. “Says the guy who seemed concerned for my well-being not thirty seconds ago.”

“That’s different.”

“So you’re admitting that you care?” A smile cracked across the vigilante’s face. “That’s real sweet of you, Jay.”

“Shut up.”

A moment. Nightwing's jaw clenched. Then, he walked over to his jacket and slipped it on. “Tell you what,” he said, “You come with me to see Dinah, and then I’ll let you ‘disappear’ or whatever.”

Jason crossed his arms. “You were going to do that anyway.”

“So you’re already familiar with the plan. Good.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“We’ll be okay,” Nightwing replied. “No one knows where we are, and I’ve got my gear in the back seat. Besides—” He cracked a wicked grin. “—bad guys are always out to get me. This is just another Tuesday.”

“It’s Thursday,” Jason said.

“Same thing. Do you want to leave now, or do you want to shower first?”

Like he’d ever waste time showering when he could be on the run. How stupid did Nightwing think he was? “Leave,” he muttered.

"Fine. Have it your way.”

Cursing, Jason threw on his boots and followed Nightwing out to the parking lot, a wide expanse of cracked asphalt, weeds, and only three cars. It would be a humid day. He could tell from the thin film of sweat that settled over his forehead, the way each breath felt full and hot. Great.

Nightwing unlocked his car. “We’ll pick up food in the next big town we hit. Sound good?”

Jason nodded, though the idea of stopping at all left a hollowness inside him. If his role were different, if he were the one chasing, he knew he would not stop, because Roman would not have him stop. He’d run, drive, do whatever he had to until his hands were wet with blood. Well. Except for that one time he didn’t do that.

_ Stupid piece of shit. _

For the smallest moment, he wondered what would happen if he killed Nightwing, then and there, and just waited. Waited for someone to catch up to him and try to bring him to Roman, only to see that Jason was still loyal, still wanted to be the weapon he was meant to be. It was a way out, maybe the only way out that didn’t involve him dead or on the run. _ It would be easy _, the voices whispered. Though Nightwing was still a threat even with a broken arm, Jason could take him. Easy.

But then Nightwing smiled at him, and the thoughts became heavy. It was not that he wouldn’t do it, but that he _ couldn’t. _Not to…not to him.

Jason got in the car, staring blankly ahead. He wanted to say, _ I’m sorry that I’m a whiny bastard. _ He wanted to say, _ I guess I don’t know how else to act. _ He wanted to say, _ No one’s been this nice to me before. _But the words calcified on his tongue, until he could do nothing but watch the trees fly past and listen to Nightwing’s steady breathing.

They were driving through a forest beside the Pennsylvania turnpike—they could not risk the highway, especially not without a license plate—when he felt a familiar drop in his gut, like the premonition of bad news. There were no cars along the country road, no white noise of engines to dampen the feeling. “Drive faster,” he said suddenly, resisting the urge to take the wheel into his own hands.

“What’s wrong?”

Jason checked the rear-view mirror. No sign of anyone, let alone Roman’s men. “I don’t know, it’s just—”

“A gut feeling.” Nightwing nodded, staring down the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, then loosened. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“It’s in our nature to be suspicious, especially when we’re alone.”

_ You have no idea, _Jason thought. He tapped his finger on his thigh, checking the rear-view mirror again. Still, nothing. “Are you sure you can’t go faster?”

Nightwing shook his head. “It’s not safe,” he replied. “This road is hardly paved.”

Once more Jason checked the mirror. He wondered how fast the windows could roll down, were he to throw up.

“Would it make you feel better if you were driving?” Nightwing asked.

_ God, yes. _Jason took a deep breath, and nodded.

Once the car was pulled over, it only took a moment for them to switch seats. Jason didn’t even think about driving away without Nightwing. He could only think about the hot, wet air, how it made his insides lurch uncomfortably. Then the doors were closed, and he could breathe.

He turned the key in the ignition, all-too aware of the way Nightwing’s lips pursed in concentration. Something about it felt suggestive, if not outright obscene. It reminded Jason of how he looked after he stepped from the shower, half-naked and dripping, and a blush crept over his cheeks at the thought. He willed it away.

_ Idiot. Not the time. Never the time. Not for you. _

The car crept back onto the winding road, its engine the only noise in the mid-morning atmosphere. If he were dull and unoriginal, Jason would have made some comment about it being _ quiet, too quiet, _but he settled on watching the rugged asphalt stretch into the shadows of the trees. Between them and the vanishing point of the road, there was nothing. In the rear view mirror, the same, distinct lack. Something wasn’t right.

A shiver ran up his forearms. Jason pressed harder on the gas, taking the curves as quickly as he dared. Left, right, left. With each turn, his body bent away from the road, toward the shade of the forests.

“Slow down,” Nightwing said. “I just paid this thing off.”

Jason squeezed the steering wheel, ignoring the panic that elevated his heart rate. He checked the speedometer: 55. The road: 30. There wasn’t even anyone behind them. He was being ridiculous, he was being—

“Jay!”

Stupid piece of shit. Why couldn’t he have drowned in the bay, and saved everyone a mountain of trouble?

“Jason! _ Stop the car! _”

He slammed on the brakes. Screeching tires. The smell of burning rubber. His chest screamed from the impact while his teeth knocked together, sending pain along the bones of his jaw. When it was over, Jason gasped like a drowning man, unable to hear over the pounding of his heart. And then, when he looked up, everything inside him froze.

A felled tree lay at the bumper, four feet in diameter and long enough to block the entire road. Jason’s eyes trailed it from the tip down the trunk, to find a clean, quick cut through the wood. “Shit,” he breathed, looking over at Nightwing’s hardened expression. The vigilante seemed to be reaching for something beneath the seat—slowly, as if not to cause a disturbance—while unbuckling his seat belt with his other hand.

Yeah. That seemed about right. Jason fumbled with his own seat belt, ignoring the stinging of his chest, before practically falling out of the car.

Something clicked above his head. He’d recognize that sound anywhere.

“Don’t move,” a gruff voice said.

Jason tried to raise his head, only to feel the barrel of a gun pressing down against the back of his skull. “Right,” he muttered, staring at the dark boots in front of him. It wasn’t the first time someone had him trapped at point-blank range, though it was the first time he felt so incapable of rescuing himself from the situation.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

Nightwing’s voice sounded from behind him. No, above him. Was he on top of the car? God damn it. “Working for the Black Mask, eh?” he asked. “That’s a step down for you, Slade.”

Slade._ Fuck. _

The pressure was removed from Jason’s head. He looked up into the split mask, the single blue eye, only to have a gloved hand wrap around his collar and yank him forward.

“Walk away, Wing,” Deathstroke said. “This isn’t our fight.”

“I can’t let you take him.”

Jason struggled against Deathstroke’s grip.With each jerk of his body, his grip tightened, like an animal snare. Still, he was able to see Nightwing, who was on top of the car, brandishing both escrima sticks in an offensive stance.

“_ Just go, _” Jason hissed.

“Mmm. Smart kid. You ought to learn a lesson from this one, Wing.”

Nightwing shook his head. “Slade,” he said. “Do you really want to do this?”

“A client is a client. It’s nothing personal.”

“He’s twenty-one.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Deathstroke growled. “Jason Todd, former protégé of Roman Sionis. Six foot even, two hundred pounds. Tough until he isn’t. Is that right?”

“Okay, now it feels personal,” Jason said. Fuck, his chest hurt. His racing heart didn’t help.

Nightwing’s face contorted with rage. Brow furrowed, eyes narrow beneath the mask. “Slade, I’m warning you.”

The scratch of steel against leather, and a knife was pressed against Jason’s throat. He stilled, arching his neck away from the blade, though there was little wiggle room between the metal and Deathstroke’s armor.

“Leave now, and no one gets hurt. My orders are to bring him back alive,” Deathstroke said. The knife moved from Jason’s throat, down his chest, and settled over the spot where the bullet had ripped through him. “It doesn’t have to be in one piece.”

The point pressed into Jason’s skin, not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough force to make the tender skin burn. He grit his teeth and fought to stay still. _ Think, _ he thought, though his thoughts stopped there. _ Think. Think. Think. _

Nightwing was fast. If Jason could remove himself from Deathstroke’s grip, Nightwing could incapacitate him before bullets started flying. And if the assassin didn’t want to kill him—and they all knew this to be true—he would stray from using excessive force. But there was no way in hell that—

_ Stop thinking. Do. _

It happened quickly. Jason threw all his weight into an elbow to Deathstroke’s kidney. A grunt, and the grip on Jason loosened just enough for him to slip through. He stumbled. Caught himself. Slipped away. And then—

A throwing knife lodged itself in the back of his left calf. Jason felt the impact before the pain. He swore and fell, cutting his hands on the rough asphalt. Hot blood poured down his leg.

“Wrong move,” Deathstroke snarled. He stood over Jason, his eye a thin slit in his mask, his katana at the ready. And then there was a flash of color, and he was falling.

“Get into the car,” Nightwing hissed in his ear, and shoved him toward the vehicle. With heat and dizziness pushing down on him, Jason could hear better than he could see. He picked up on soft grunts. The thud of fists against armor, flesh. The whisper of steel. The clang of Nightwing’s escrima sticks as they blocked Deathstroke’s blows.

_ Move, _the voices urged.

He did, scrambling toward the car and pulling himself into the driver’s seat. The knife was still lodged in his leg, nothing but a metal handle protruding from his skin. He touched it once, and hissed as his vision went white.

That’s when he heard it. The impact of a skull on asphalt is a very distinct sound, one that Jason had gotten to know quite well over the years. Too dull to be a _ smack, _ too wet to be a _ thud _.

When his vision cleared, he saw Nightwing, groaning and bloodied but still conscious, in the middle of the road. _ Shit. _

Jason’s hand found the car keys. He could drive away. Shift into reverse, and get the hell out of here. It wouldn’t be his fault if Nightwing died. The vigilante _ chose _ to be involved.

Yeah, right.

“Fuck me,” Jason muttered, turning the keys in the ignition. As an orange and black blur spend toward the car, he hit the gas. The car jerked backwards, wheels turning up a tornado of dust as it reversed down the road. One second. Two seconds.

Deathstroke was fast. He charged forward, gaining distance faster than the car could create it.

Six seconds. Seven seconds. The assassin was right at the bumper, reaching out, and—

Jason shifted into drive.

The car rammed into Deathstroke, sending him tumbling over the hood and the roof of the car. Over the sound of the engine, Jason could hear his body hit the road. He did not appear to be moving. Not good enough.

He only stopped the car when he was at Nightwing’s still form. Jumping from the car, Jason ignored the burning of his calf and scooped him into his arms. “I’ve got you,” he muttered, casting a look back at the road. Deathstroke was still down. Knowing the assassin’s metahuman abilities, Jason would give him thirty, forty seconds before he was up again.

Nightwing seemed to be clinging to consciousness: he was awake enough to respond when Jason pulled him upright, shuffling his feet awkwardly as Jason dragged him, limping, toward the car. But by the time Jason was able to push him into the back, he was babbling nonsense.

Didn’t matter. He was in the vehicle, and a second later, Jason was too. Then they were gone.

It took Jason forty minutes before he could breathe again. He looked back at Nightwing, curled up in the back, and saw that he was bloody, but just barely. Small cuts covered his arms and torso; a bruise was forming on his jaw. As Jason’s eyes slid further up his face, his heart skipped a beat. The mask had been torn in two.

He was looking into the face of Richard Grayson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing fight scenes. Why don't I write more of them??? SMH
> 
> If you're wondering how I'm interpreting the characters' sexualities, Dick is 100% bisexual, whereas Jason is more of an anti-label guy because Confusion™ is real. But I mean, he's totally pan/ace (ace!Jason is the hill I **will** die on, fight me).
> 
> Anyway the BatFam (+others!) will show up next time, so gird your loins.


	14. Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early chapter, dedicated to the lovely Chaseha_Wing :)
> 
> Just so you know, I really love writing about injuries and treatments. The words flow like juice at a daycare. I kept the actual gore at a minimum, but there is quite a bit of blood in this chapter. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** vomit, injuries, blood, mentions of abuse

Jason pulled into the first gas station they came across. It looked to be from the seventies, and probably hadn’t been used since then. The windows had been made opaque with dirt, and the paint was peeling off the pumps. Only one light was on, an old porch lamp above the entrance to the store, yellowed with age and full of dead bugs. 

When he cut the engine, the whole place fell eerily silent. 

He exhaled, and like an off switch, a pressure released inside of him and he was exhausted. A familiar burn dug into the back of his leg. The blood seemed to be slowing, though the knife was still embedded in the muscle. They would have to get rid of that. 

They. Him and Richard Grayson. The immobile vigilante in the back of the car. 

Not immobile. Nightwing groaned and jerked his arms, as if still caught in a fight. A concussion, Jason figured. He was wearing street clothes, not his uniform. The fabric could get caught on things, the soles of his shoes could slip. All that, and his arm was in a sling. Idiot probably tried to do a flip but couldn’t get the right balance, the traction. 

A weight lodges in the back of his throat. Jason could turn him in. Nightwing wasn’t Batman, but he was as close as possible. A little extrapolation, and they’d have the names of the whole Bat crew. Hell, if Jason wasn’t half-asleep, he’d probably have Batman’s name in two minutes. It would be _ so _easy… 

No. Nightwing—_Richard Grayson_—risked his life to stop Deathstroke from taking him away. Deathstroke, who had been hired by Roman. Roman, who had tried to shoot him. Roman, who… who… He wouldn’t, he _ couldn’t _go back to him. 

_ Fuck. _Jason buried his head in his arms. He itched to twist the knife deeper into his leg just so he could control what he felt. But there were so many veins in his calf, thick veins full of blood, and he was already close to unconsciousness. He needed to stay awake for Nightwing. 

“Hey,” he muttered, reaching back to poke the body in the back seat. “Hey. Nightwing. Richard. Whatever. Are you alive?”

Without warning, Nightwing shot up into a sitting position, eyes wide and unfocused. “What…?” he groaned, before his upper body lurched. He made a strangled noise, and pushed open the door. From the sounds he was making, it was clear that he was throwing up. 

Yep. A concussion. 

Jason got out of the car and hobbled over to the back, where Nightwing was spitting the last of the sick onto the asphalt. He stood, waiting for him to finish. When the quiet returned, Nightwing looked up at him, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Your mask fell off,” Jason said. 

Nightwing touched his face. “Oh. Inter—interesting.”

Great. He’s delusional. Jason held up his hand, sighing. “How many fingers do you see?” he asked. 

“Four?” 

“Good. Can you stand?”

Nightwing nodded, his eyes focusing on Jason’s leg. “There’s a knife,” he said. “Can _ you _ stand?”

“I’m standing now.”

“Oh.”

_ Jesus Christ. _ “Come on,” Jason muttered, heaving the other man to his feet. When he tried to walk away, Nightwing held on to him. 

“I think I’ll need help.”

Jason gave him a look, but did not shrug him off. Together they limped over to the store, their bodies warmer and stronger in each other’s company. They did not annoy him, Nightwing’s hands on his shoulders, not even as the vigilante stumbled over the asphalt and gripped him tightly. If anything, they made him feel stable. Though Jason could stand, each step sent a fresh wave of pain rippling up his leg.

“It’s not open,” Nightwing said, when they reached the door.

“And?”

“We can’t just break in.”

Rolling his eyes, Jason let go of him and stepped toward the door. Peering inside, he could see shelves—mostly empty, but stocked enough—as well as the thing he was looking for. The deadbolt. He slipped his shirt over his head and wrapped it around his fist. 

“Jason, don’t.”

Like he was going to listen. It only took one punch to break the glass, and another to clear the shards that clung to the door frame. Reaching inside, his fingers found the lock, and the deadbolt, and when he turned the handle the door swung open. “Are you coming?” he asked, stepping inside. 

Nightwing pursed his lips, then followed. “There could have been alarms,” he muttered.

“Yeah, but there weren’t. Here.” He tossed him a bottle of water. “Drink this.”

“What about your leg?”

“I’m working on it,” Jason replied. He limped from row to row, looking for gauze, coban, anything stronger than the kitty cat band-aids by the register. There. Gauze pads. The duct tape in the next aisle over would have to be the adhesive. Grabbing the gauze and a bottle of Tylenol, Jason walked back to the front, thrusting the bottle into Nightwing’s arms. “For your headache. It’s not expired.”

“Thanks.”

He ignored him, gently lowering himself to the floor. His pants leg was soaked in blood, some of it dried, some of it scarlet and oozing. _ Shit. _ He hated pulling things out of his body, hated the tug of resisting muscle and the sick _ pop _as whatever it was slid out of his skin. Most of the time Lionel would do it, laughing as blood spurted out of the now-open wound. Sick fuck. 

“Scissors,” Nightwing said.

Jason took them silently. He began cutting the fabric around the wound until his calf was exposed and no denim remained around the blade. “Doesn’t look like it’s near an artery,” he muttered. “That’s good.”

Nightwing sat down next to him, his movements jerky and uncontrolled. Still, he asked, “Do you want me to do it?”

“Fuck no.”

“That’s fair.”

Jason stared at his leg. He inhaled. Exhaled. His fingers curled around the hilt, careful not to exert any force. Inhale, exhale. _ Three, _ he thought. _ Two. One. _

It was as if he had stuck his leg in a hornet’s nest. White-hot pain gripped the muscles of his calf, and he grit his teeth, fighting against the urge to thrash and writhe. He maintained control long enough to hiss, “gauze!” and a pressure was placed atop the pain. Time for the tape.

The first layer hurt, practically a tourniquet on his leg. But by the fourth layer, he could hardly feel anything more than a constant pressure, and then, nothing. 

He let out a long breath. Nightwing did the same. 

“You alright?” he asked softly.

“We’re not done.”

“What do you mean?” 

Grunting, Jason pointed to the wound on his chest. “Deathstroke found us,” he said, cutting off Nightwing’s protestations. “He shouldn’t have been able to. Which means…” He trailed off, pulling off the sterile pad over the bullet wound. 

“You think there’s a tracker on you,” Nightwing breathed. “Jay, Leslie would have found it.”

“Did she run an x-ray on my chest?” 

“No.”

Jason grabbed the knife he had pulled from his leg and began to cut through the stitches, wincing with each _ snap _of the thread. “Then she could have missed it. It’s not her fault. Roman’s trackers are small.” 

“This is ridiculous. Why wouldn’t he have come after you in the hospital?”

“What fun is the hunt if your prey is immobile?” Jason muttered. The last of the stitches broke, but no blood escaped the wound. “Hand me that bottle of wine, will you.”

“Don’t be—”

“I know what I’m doing. _ Give it to me. _”

Biting his lip, Nightwing reached over to the wine stand and handed him a bottle. Jason wrapped his teeth around the cork; it opened with a small _ pop_. “After I…you know…pour this on it. Wait—” He took three large gulps before handing it back. “Okay.”

“You’re sure you can stay conscious?”

Jason nodded. “Yep,” he said, and stuffed his shirt in his mouth. 

No countdown this time. The last thing his controlled mind remembered was the acute sting of the blade going into the wound, the burst of heat like a red-hot poker in his flesh. He could hear his voice, grunting and sobbing around the shirt as fingers—surely not his own, but they were his own, they had to be—reached inside and moved, wriggling. Seconds later, hours later, they were gone. Something clattered against tile. A lukewarm liquid washed over his chest, but he did not feel the sting. Then, it was over.

He gasped, and the shirt fell free. In his fingers, a tiny, blinking sphere, no bigger than a grain of rice. “Fuck you,” he muttered, and let it fall to the floor. 

Nightwing was staring at him, looking remarkably calm. “Tylenol?” he asked, offering the pills. 

Jason shook his head, grabbing the wine instead. He drank until he thought his lungs might explode, then let the near-empty bottle fall from his hands. “Fuck,” he said again.

“I know.”

“You’ve done this?” 

“Why do you think I tried to stop you?”

Jason shrugged as he taped another gauze pad to his chest. Thankfully, the flow of blood did not seem threatening. It would stop soon. “Figures,” he said. “You heroic types are all the same. _ Don’t hurt yourself that way! Only _ I _ can hurt myself that way!” _

“My voice isn’t nearly that high. You’re delirious.” 

“_You’re _delirious,” Jason snapped, leaning back against a shelf. If he closed his eyes, he would sleep. Of that he had no doubt. So he stared straight ahead, counting the ugly keychains hanging from a display. In the ceiling he could hear some kind of scratching, chattering. A raccoon, or something. 

They sat and listened for a moment. Then the body beside him shuffled uncomfortably. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do about what?” Jason grumbled. 

Nightwing motioned to his face. There was blood on his arm, either his or Jason’s or both. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am.”

“Right.” He picked up the knife from the floor, spun it absent-mindedly around in his hands. His blood had rendered the silver into a deep copper. But it would wash clean. “You’re Richard Grayson,” he said. “I’m Jason Todd. Conversation over.”

“Is it?”

Jason snorted. “Were you hoping I’d shout it from the rooftops? I can, if that’s what you want. ‘Richard Grayson is Nightwing.’ Ha! People might actually believe that.” 

A smile tugged at Nightwing’s lips. “I prefer to be called Dick, actually.”

“I remember.”

“You can call me Dick. Please call me Dick.”

“You’re taking this remarkably well.” 

Nightwing sighed deeply, pressing a light touch against the back of his arm, then winced. “It happens to the best of us,” he muttered. “Sometimes we get lucky. And sometimes—” 

“—bad people find out,” Jason finished. 

“You’re not a bad person.” 

Staring at the knife in his hands, Jason caught the bloodied eye of his reflection. “So you’ve told me,” he muttered. 

“Mmm.” Nightwing’s fingers found a piece of broken glass, and flicked it across the dusty tile floor. “Well, I suppose the breaking and entering doesn’t exactly make you look good.” 

“Have daddy send them a check.”

Nightwing shot him a look. “Oh, so now that you know, I’m just another rich bastard, huh?”

“The rich are the scum of the Earth,” Jason said. “No offense.”

“My parents were circus acrobats.” 

“Cool. And your—I don’t know—foster father could end homelessness in Gotham. But you think putting on a suit and dancing around rooftops is a more important mission.”

Nightwing shook his head, laughing bitterly. “Says the guy who wore a mask for Roman Sionis.”

A hard lump rose in Jason’s throat. He could feel the heat flooding his face, crawling down his spine. When he tried to speak, to say _ fuck Roman _ or _ fuck you _ or _ fuck me _, his tongue remained pressed to the roof of his mouth. It should have been so hard. Why was it so hard?

_ Roman’s fault, _ a tiny voice said. _ Look at what he’s done to you. _

“I’m sorry,” Nightwing said softly. “That was a shitty thing to say.”

Jason swallowed, and shook his head. For the first time in a long time, he thought about the kid on the street, how it felt to sleep on rags and steal pocket change to survive. The rules that the other lost people, that his own father, pressed into him. _ Play the hand you’re dealt _ . _ Fear digs a deeper grave. You will either go to prison or go to hell. _

Caustic laughter built inside him, escaping in short bursts. He could feel Nightwing looking at him as though he had caught on fire but it didn’t matter. It felt good to laugh, to purge his body of some toxic thing that had festered inside for over seven years. Even his chest, which throbbed with every heave of his lungs, seemed to have transformed into a welcome pain, like the burn after a successful run. 

“Did you know,” he said,wiping at his face, “that I thought I was going to be a teacher?”

“I did not know that.”

“Yeah. I told myself, Jason, you’re gonna get off the street and get an education, and then you’re gonna teach books to kids so they don’t end up like Mom and Dad. And now look at me. I’m bleeding, you’re bleeding—” 

Jason stopped suddenly. “You’re bleeding,” he said again, noticing the dark rivulets that crawled down the back of Nightwing’s neck. Dick’s neck. Whatever.

Dick touched his head. His fingers came back red, but not soaked. “Hit my head pretty hard,” he said, wiping his hand on his shirt. “It’s not seeping, so that’s good.”

“I can get it to stop.”

“With what? Kitty band-aids?”

“Got a flashlight?” Jason asked. 

“There’s one on my car keys.” 

Indeed there was. Jason tested it, making sure that it was powerful enough, before handing it over to Dick. “Shine here,” he said, positioning Dick’s hand over the place where the blood seemed thickest. When he could clearly see the length of the cut—only about an inch in total, not horrible—he got to work.

“What the heck are you doing back there?” Dick asked.

“Tying your hair together,” Jason replied, gathering the strands next to the cut between his fingers. “It’ll close the wound.”

“How’d you figure this out?” 

He paused, then continued working. “You get creative when you don’t have access to bandages. Besides,” he added, “the alternative is shaving part of your head.”

Though he could not see Dick’s face, he could tell he was smiling. “In that case,” Dick said, “please continue.”

When he was finished, his fingers were sticky with blood and whatever fragrant gel Dick had dumped over his head that morning. Grimacing, Jason wiped them off on his ruined jeans and sat back down, blinking quickly to drive away exhaustion. “Hand me another bottle,” he said with a nod toward the wine cases.

“You should eat something. We _ both _should eat something.”

Jason snorted, but did not disagree. “Fine,” he said, straining to reach the first thing in his field of vision, a stand full of “gourmet” cherry lollipops. Cherry, his ass. Last one he had tasted like cold medicine with a fine layer of plastic around the outside. Whatever. 

“I meant real food,” Dick said, when Jason handed one over.

“Please. All good patients get a sucker.” 

“You’re drunk. Stop.”

“First of all, I’m not drunk. Secondly, if I were, I’d say I deserve it,” he replied, looking at the lollipop, scowling, and throwing it across the store. “And thirdly, these are shit anyway.”

“And probably covered in rat poison, at this point.”

“You don’t say,” Jason said quietly. He stared down the short aisles of the market, counting cobwebs and rat shit to keep himself focused and in control. Seven, eight, nine… The numbers slipped away. Shit. Time for him to start over. 

Five, six, seven… He was vaguely aware of Dick standing, his movements slow but much more controlled than earlier. Great. Now he’d insist on walking Jason back to the car, like Jason was some sort of inebriated ninety year-old.

“We should destroy this,” Dick said. He held the tracking chip far away from his body, as if he were afraid he might swallow it.

“They’re heat and water resistant,” Jason mumbled. “You’ve got to crush it.”

There was a pause, the shuffle of something over the front counter. Then, a loud thump. Another. Jason could feel the vibrations through the floor and up his spine, but did not care to look. He figured Dick used a mug, or bottle, or even a desk lamp. Didn’t matter, really. 

“Done,” came Dick’s voice. Footsteps moved over to Jason, and a pair of hands helped him to his feet. His vision went dark, then slowly returned, like ink blots dissolving in water. “We should go.”

Jason tried to keep his head upright as they walked. “To Deanna?” he asked.

“Dinah. And I think…I’ll have her come to us. Star City is still eight hours away. We don’t have that time.”

“Mmm. Lost a liter of blood between us.”

“You did, mostly,” Dick said.

“So we’re going to…?”

“Gotham,” Dick said, pushing him into the passenger seat.

“You’re from Gotham,” Jason replied, as if the fact had finally found a place in his memory. “You’re Richard Grayson, from Gotham.”

“Damn. We need to get your blood sugar up.”

“How many people know that the most eligible bachelor in Gotham has a side gig?”

“According to Vicki Vale, Bruce Wayne is the most eligible bachelor in Gotham.”

“No, that can’t be right.” Jason looked at Dick, the angles of his face, the deep blue of his eyes. And his chest was so nice, too. Wait. When did Jason see his chest? He couldn’t remember anymore. 

“If I grab you a candy bar, will you eat it?” Dick asked, pushing him into the car.

“Rat poison,” Jason said. When he looked up, he saw that Dick had deposited him in the passenger seat. “Don’t you have a concussion?”

“You’re literally falling asleep.”

“_You’re _falling asleep.”

“Oh my god.” There was the slam of a car door closing, then another. If the engine roared as it came to life, Jason did not hear it. 

He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the seat. It wouldn’t hurt to rest a bit. Just for a few moments, while Nightwing-Richard-Dick drove them away. Besides, the seat had become strangely comfortable, warming beneath his body, drawing him down into a place where he had nothing, felt nothing, but his thoughts.

Nightwing was Richard Grayson. Richard Grayson, former ward of Bruce Wayne, billionaire, was _ Nightwing. _ Nightwing, former protégé of Batman. Former Robin. Richard Grayson used to be Robin. Robin, Robin, Robin. All of this started because of Robin. Because Jason thought that if he worked out the identity of Robin, he’d work out the identity of Batman. 

Robin, Richard Grayson. 

“We’re going to see Bruce Wayne, aren’t we?” Jason asked. 

Nightwing flinched, then pretended he had not. “Why would we do that?” he asked slowly.

“Do you want me to say it out loud?”

“No.”

A silence fell over the car, marred only by the pounding of Jason’s heart in his ears. _ I… I did it, _ he realized, but hated that his first thoughts were of Roman. Roman, Roman, _ Roman. _ Jason wanted to be a good person, a teacher, once. Jason never wanted to hurt people, to be hurt. Impossible dreams, all of them, because of _ him. _

And now, completely by accident, he has information Roman would kill for. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, is Batman. A concept so absurd, so obvious, that it had never even crossed their minds. How many criminals would sell their souls for that piece of information?

Bruce Wayne. Batman.

Somewhere in his head, he heard a single voice. Roman’s voice. 

_ You did it Jason, _ it said. _ You just became the most dangerous man in the world. _

♟♟♟

Dick relayed the story while Jason did nothing, feeling like an accessory. The entire time, Bruce Wayne watched them, unblinking, his face cold and unreadable. And then the story was over, and the room went quiet. 

The first thing Jason said was, “He didn’t tell me.” 

He didn’t know why he says this. Maybe it was because he didn’t know what else to say, standing before Bruce Wayne in his cold, Gothic sitting room. Maybe it was because of the way Bruce stared at Dick when they walked in, that mixture of concern and disappointment that only a parent or a mentor could possess. Or maybe it was pride, a small _ fuck you _to the Caped Crusader who, despite everything, was still the man who thought Jason was a broken little bird to scoop into his flock. 

Jason continued. “His mask came off. I recognized him. From there I...well, I connected the dots.” He stared at the Persian rug, following the pattern up and around the room.

“I see,” Bruce said.

“I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?”

Heat crawled up his neck, his cheeks. “For lying. For everything.”

“You tried to kill me,” Bruce said. “You tried to kill my partner, my son.”

Jason could feel both of them watching him, their eyes digging into his face, his hands. Suddenly he remembered Fake Jason, that quivering, frightened lamb that could barely speak without apologizing for it. Funny. Fake Jason didn’t feel so fake anymore. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“And now Dick tells me you risked freedom to come back for him. You could have driven away, but you didn’t. Why?” 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Bruce said quickly, softly. He took a step toward Jason, who flinched—Why did he flinch? What was _ wrong _ with him?—but otherwise stood still. And then there were hands on his shoulders, Bruce’s hands, _ Batman’s _hands, gentle as moonlight. And his eyes, those bright blue irises, looked so much softer without the shadow of the cowl. 

“_I _ should be sorry,” Bruce said. “I made a terrible mistake, trying to leave you behind. If it weren’t for Dick…”

Dick’s head shot up, surprise written across his face. But Bruce did not elaborate. He merely let the statement hang in the air, laden with the weight of their collective imaginations.

“Well. I see now that things need to be on your terms,” he finished.

Shocked, Jason could do nothing but stare. At last he said, “Okay?”

Bruce’s hands slipped from his shoulders, leaving a warmth behind. “And Dick—”

“I know,” Dick said. “You don’t have to say it. I’ll just add it to your tab.”

If Bruce was smiling, he wasn’t actually smiling. “I am happy to have you here,” he said.

At once Jason shuffled uncomfortably, aware that he was in the middle of something he didn’t understand. No, it was more than that. He was the outsider. The guy that didn’t belong. One of these things is not like the others.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked.

“I suppose we should ask you,” Bruce replied. “What do you want us to do?”

“I can’t answer that. Not right now.”

“Then we’ll give you time.”

“Really.”

“You’re the reason Dick’s not bleeding out on a road.”

“Technically, I’m the reason he was bleeding in the first place.”

“No,” Dick said, his voice laced with regret. “I fucked up. That was on me.”

Bruce gave them both a look. “Enough. The blame game can’t be won."

_ Well aren’t you a fount of wisdom, _ Jason thought. But he said nothing of the kind. Instead he shrugged, a weak acknowledgement, and thought about the answer to the question. What did he want them to do? God. It was worse than a self-assessment questionnaire. _ On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to disappear? How much do you want revenge? Explain. _

“Dick, what’s wrong with your hair?” Bruce asked suddenly. 

Dick touches the row of knots on the nape of his neck, as if he had forgotten. “Oh this?” he asked. “Jason did it.”

“Bleeding,” Jason says, too quickly. Recovering, he adds, “He was bleeding. We needed a quick fix.”

“That’s very inventive. As is the duct tape.”

Jason looks at his leg, bare from the knee down. The skin below the tape had started to pale and yellow from blood loss. At once he realized that he could no longer feel his foot, and, like a cartoon who only falls when it looks down, the realization caused him to falter, newly unbalanced.

“Jay,” Dick exclaimed, wrapping his free arm around his waist as he helped him onto a lounge.

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Past suffering is not a good excuse to refuse present help,” Bruce said.

Jason scoffed. “I’d hardly call this ‘suffering.’”

“You know what I mean.” 

He did. But that didn’t mean he liked it. Pain makes you stronger. The fear of pain is a weakness. The embrace of pain is the first step toward—

_ That’s Roman talking, _Jason realized suddenly. His leg ached in its numbness when it didn’t have to. Why wallow in it?

“Fine,” he said. “I guess I should clean it, or whatever. To prevent infection.”

Bruce nodded, a certain understanding captured in his gaze. It was clear that he knew what path Jason’s mind had just travelled, or read it, like it was written on his face. Huh. Maybe the World’s Greatest Detective was actually good at his job. 

“Need a hand?” Dick asked as Jason stood. 

Yeah, right. “Just because I decided_ not _ to walk around with my leg duct taped together, it doesn’t mean I can’t walk.” 

“You never know.”

“Just show me where to go,” Jason said, knowing he would never find a way on his own. No wonder Roman hated Bruce Wayne so much. The manor’s entrance alone dwarfed Roman’s living quarters, its halls stretching without end. Plus, Roman’s gold and crystal, his black marble and abstract paintings, none of it could compare to the simple antiquity of Wayne Manor. It was a matter of old wealth versus new wealth, Jason supposed. Elegance versus luxury.

Gross. 

Dick sat him down at the edge of a bathtub—one of forty, probably—and told him to wait. “You should probably start taking the tape off,” he said, lingering in the doorway. “Your leg is looking a little pale.” 

“Thank you. I never would have noticed without your input,” Jason replied flatly.

Winking, Dick left. Promises of _ bringing back someone who knows what he’s doing _hung in the air between them. 

Jason started picking at the tape, wincing as he gave the top layer a small tug. In retrospect, duct tape was a shit idea. He’d be lucky to have any hair left on his calf after this was over. Tug. Wince. It would be easier to do it quick, he knew, but every time his fingers grasped the tape he couldn’t bring himself to yank. _ You’ve been stabbed, _ he reminded himself. _ Burned. Shot. This is nothing. _

He yanked. It stung for ten seconds, max, but the skin beneath the tape remained red. Or maybe that was the consequence of poor circulation. Hard to tell. 

When he got to the last layer, Jason put his leg inside the tub. He didn’t think he was still bleeding, and if he was, he wanted to believe that he wouldn’t care if he spilled blood over Bruce Wayne’s floor. But he did it all the same. Besides, Bruce Wayne was probably not the person who mopped. 

The tape peeled off with a _ rip_, taking the gauze pad with it. Dried blood caked the raw skin around the wound, which no longer bled but oozed a clear, pinkish substance. Surprisingly, the cool bathroom air did not sting as Jason expected it to. 

“This is him,” said a voice. Dick.

A tall, older man entered the bathroom, carrying what looked to be a medical bag. Dick stood him, holding a fresh ice pack against his skull. Something about his expression told Jason that the pack was not his idea.

“Jay, this is Alfred,” Dick explained. “He can sew you back together.” 

The man, Alfred, bowed his head. “An honor, Master Jason.”

_ Master Jason? _ A butler, then. That would explain the tux, and the accent. “It’s not bad,” Jason said, twisting his body to present his leg. 

“‘Not bad’ does not mean it can’t become better,” Alfred replied. He dug around in the bag until he procured a large brown bottle. “Hold still, please.” 

“What is that?”

“Hydrogen peroxide, Master Jason. I assume you are familiar?”

“Please just call me Jason,” he replied, watching as the butler poured the clear liquid over his leg. It bubbled over the open wound, sizzling like meat on the grill. 

“Good luck with that,” Dick said, grinning. “Alfie here practically raised me, and he still calls me Master Richard.”

Jason wanted to make a joke about _ Master Dick, _but decided against it. Besides, the butler had started dabbing the wound with a wet cloth, and even the lightest pressure was enough to make him twitch. Finally, he said, “Don’t you have something else to do?” 

Alfred answered before Dick could. “Master Richard, the young man is correct. You should wash up now, before the smell of blood becomes a more permanent attribute of yours. I will see to your head later.” 

“You won’t shave it, will you?” Dick asked.

“That depends on how much blood I find on the carpets,” Alfred replied smoothly. There was a sharp pinch, and Jason realized he had started stitching. 

Dick nodded. “Understood. Take care of him, Alfie.” 

Alfred hummed knowingly, and continued drawing thread through Jason’s skin. Jason watched in morbid fascination as the ugly red gash became a thin line trapped beneath dark blue knots. He only grunted once, when the needle went particularly deep into the flesh.

“Apologies, Master Jason.”

Jason blinked, taken aback. “No need,” he muttered. “I’m used to it.”

“Then I have greater reason to be sorry,” Alfred said, again retrieving the brown bottle. “If you do not mind, your shirt, please.” 

Right. There was still a gaping hole in his chest. Funny how easily these things are forgotten, when they are hidden beneath a bloodied shirt, when the whole body is hurting already. 

The process began again, albeit with more salves and disinfecting ointments after Alfred found out that Jason’s fingers had been inside the wound. “The human hand hosts an extraordinary amount of bacteria,” he explained. “A bottle of wine cannot kill half of them, let alone the wines made today.”

“What’s wrong with the wines made today?” Jason asked, wishing desperately for a bottle of his own. God damn stinging ointments. God damn stitches.

“Nothing,” Alfred replied. “Though their alcoholic content is far lower than those of the ancient Greeks. A bottle of Fernet-Branca, on the other hand… Of course, I am a tea man myself.”

“Tea.” 

“Oh yes. Nothing warms the body and soul like a proper cup of tea.” 

“The chicken soup people might disagree with you,” Jason said, cringing as the needle again pierced his skin. Did Batman really not have numbing gel? Or did he save it for the people who didn’t try to kill him? 

When it was over, Alfred presented with a complete change of clothes. “I believe these should fit you,” he said. “You are welcome to shower, if you wish. Though I do recommend—”

“That I don’t get the stitches wet,” Jason finished.

Alfred nodded. “You are a smart young man, Master Jason.”

_ Smart young man. _Instinct told him to scoff, to explain that he wasn’t smart, that he it wasn’t his job to be smart. But the butler’s words were warm and kind, and for the first time in a long while, Jason wondered why he couldn’t accept them. What could be so bad about that?

Still, Jason let Alfred’s compliment hang in the air, unacknowledged even as the butler left the room. His tongue simply would not move, no matter how hard he tried to push the words from his mouth. And then he was alone.

He sighed, and began to shed the rest of his clothing. 

The shower was, Jason decided, one of the best things to ever happen to him. Nothing like watching your own blood wash down the drain, revealing clean skin that smells of lavender and honey. Even his muscles felt looser, their aches less intense. 

After, he walked back to where he had spoken with Bruce and Dick. Rather, he tried to, only to find himself lost in the labyrinthine corridors of the manor. Was it not down the hall, to the left, and past the music room? Fucking hell. 

“Who are you?”

Jason turned around. A thin, dark-haired girl stood in the hallway, studying him like one might study a map. She appeared to be about his age, maybe older, maybe younger. Her eyes seemed older, at least.

“Answer,” she said. 

“I’m Jason.”

The girl said nothing. So he tried again.

“Dick brought me here. I’m looking for him.”

Something flashed across her face, and her stance changed. More ease, less tension. _ She was ready to attack me, _he realized, his confusion growing. 

“You’re hurt,” she said. 

“How did you know?”

She walked toward him, and held out a hand. “I know.”

Taking her hand, Jason wondered if she was talking about something else. It seemed like she was. Her voice was too soft, too kind. No bragging there. 

“My name is Cassandra,” she said as she lead him down the hallway. “Cass.”

A sudden memory of a headline flashed before Jason. _ Bruce Wayne Takes In Orphaned Girl. _ How long ago was that? One year? Two years? Roman threw a fit about it, he remembered that. Went on and on about how _ Bruce Wayne’s such a fake fucking narcissist. Who knows what he really does to those kids. At least I don’t pretend to love you. _

Amazing how meaning can change with time. 

“He’ll find you here,” Cass said. She sat him down on a lounge, then took her place across from him. For too long, she said nothing else. Only stared.

“What?” he asked, finally. “Do I have something on my face?”

“The person who hurt you, did you trust them?”

Jason laughed uncomfortably, looking through the doorway. _ Where’s Dick? _“Do you always begin conversations this way?”

“You don’t answer.”

“I just met you.”

“I understand,” she said. “It’s hard.”

“Meeting people, or answering?”

“Both.”

“I don’t…” Jason trailed off as he saw Dick enter the room. Now clean and wearing nicer clothes, he looked more like the young man at the Museum of Modern Art. Like Richard Grayson, eligible bachelor. 

Dick grinned at him. “I see you’ve met Cass,” he said. 

“Yep.”

Cass nodded. “He was lost.”

_ Thanks for sharing, _Jason thought, looking at her. She smiled back at him, though her smile faded when she got a good look at Dick.

“You’re hurt too,” she said, her words an accusation as much as they were a question.

He shrugged. “B will give you the update. You know where to find him.”

“I do.” Looking back at Jason, she said, “It was not hard meeting you.” 

“You too,” he mumbled, but she was already gone. For the millionth time in less than a week, it was just him, his thoughts, and Dick. 

“What are you thinking about?” Dick asked. 

“The butler didn’t shave your head.”

“No, he didn’t. He liked your hair thing, though.”

Jason grunted in reply, too wrapped up in his mind to formulate words. Did he still trust Roman? Why did it feel like a mistake for him to say no? Clearly that was the right answer. _ No, I do not trust the man who shot me, who hired the world’s greatest mercenary to hunt me down. Except I do want to, except I also don’t want to. Fuck! _

_ At least I don’t pretend to love you. _

“I don’t know,” he muttered, suddenly out of breath.

“Don’t know what?”

Jason buried his head in his hands, trying to quell his heartbeat. “Anything! I don’t know anything, okay?”

“Hey, hey. You’re here. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not okay!”

“Jay, I think you’re having another panic attack. Let me get—”

“I am _ not _ having a panic attack! I just—” He bit his tongue, balling his fists until his nails dug into the soft skin of his palms. _ I just… I just what? Just want to disappear? Just want to die? Just want to be okay? _

Then the answer came, bubbling up inside, searing and inescapable. The words jumped from his tongue, which was no longer still but uncontrolled, a speeding train without a conductor. 

“I hate him,” Jason finished. His face was wet again. Was he crying? “Roman. He tried to… he made me… I hate him.”

He could not believe that he had forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that hair thing actually works (saves you a trip to the E.R. too!). However, if you have something stuck in your body, never _ever_ pull it out. It might be the only thing keeping you alive ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Not to self-promo or anything but... For those of you who like Criminal Minds (or mysteries/thrillers in general), check out my [Criminal Minds AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262428/chapters/53161786)!


	15. Deprogram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to [Farbeyondthegrave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farbeyondthegrave) for the chapter title! I'm gonna use this word forever. 
> 
> Is it Chapter 15 already?? Time flies when you're avoiding your thesis. 
> 
> In other news, I've made a discord channel! I'd love to chat, answer questions, or see pictures of your cats (or dogs, I don't discriminate). You can head over to my profile for an invite link, or you can use [this one](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP). Please come say hi! 
> 
> _Warnings for this chapter: abuse, lots of internalized shit, and references to drug abuse/underage drinking_

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Jason said. He sat at the edge of the Wayne property, overlooking the gray skyline of Gotham. There, miles in the distance, Roman’s penthouse stared back. At least it seemed to be the penthouse. Hard to tell, in all that cloud and smog. “I’m gonna fucking rip his throat out,” he said again, louder this time, as if his words could carry across the water. 

To his credit, Dick didn’t immediately shut him down, though his brow contorted with surprise and then disappointment. It was almost funny. What did he think Jason would do? Decide to settle down, join a book club? Volunteer to clean cat shit at an animal shelter? Or perhaps, instead of having some specific wish, Dick had been hoping that Jason _ wouldn’t _say exactly what he had just said. 

Jason continued, cutting him off. “And don’t give me any of that ‘no killing’ crap. You don’t get to make that decision.”

“And you do?” Dick asked slowly.

There it was. The first of the bullshit reasons vigilantes use to justify their bullshit rules. _ It’s not your job to decide who lives and who dies. _ The second reason was _ it’s the law’s, _ which relied stubbornly on the belief that Gotham’s justice system was fair and honorable, which of course it wasn’t. Gotham’s courts were run by money. A few bills in the right hands, and you walk scott-free. Then there was the third reason, _ the people of Gotham deserve justice, _that implied that only the law can deliver justice and that it always does. False, and false. Why else would the Justice League exist? 

“The things he did, he did to _me,” _Jason said. His voice broke at the last word; he turned away to hide his burning face. “Not you. Not your daddy—or mentor, whatever. _Me. _And you know as well as I do that the law won’t do shit. Not to Roman.”

“He did a lot of things to a lot of people, don’t you think that they—”

“—deserve justice?” he finished. Dick nodded. Surprise, surprise. “I’m gonna give them justice. They won’t get it otherwise.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jason ignored him. “Which one do you think they’ll like best?” he asked, picking the skin around his fingernails. “Roman’s body strung up at City Hall, or his head on a pike in the Diamond District?” 

Dick moved closer, as if his proximity were an anchor to reason. His reason. “Jay,” he said softly, reaching out but not touching him, “you can’t.” 

“Why not? It’s not like I haven’t killed people before.”

“This is different.”

“You’re right,” Jason muttered, bending down to pick up a stone. Running his fingers over the smooth surface, he hurled it toward the water, where it disappeared against the gray of the sky. “Roman actually deserves it.”

Dick sighed. “I want you to be happy, really. You deserve to be happy. But killing Roman isn’t going to help.” 

Another stone. This one he held on to, squeezing until his knuckles were white and bloodless and he was sure the grain would leave an imprint on his skin. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Dick insisted, his face betraying no lie. “When your enemies die, there’s nothing left but emptiness. No victory. No freedom. Nothing.”

“So _ that’s _why Batman lets colorful freaks run around Gotham. Well, gee. Thank goodness we have him to keep us safe!”

“Don’t be an ass. I thought you were past this.”

Jason resisted the urge to hurl the stone into Dick’s perfect face. _ He’s not who you want to fight, _ he reminded himself, _ and neither is Batman. _So he let go, allowing the rock to fall against the soft earth. “Look,” he began, “some people need to be stopped by any means necessary. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh I wouldn't, would I?” Dick asked.

Memories of the East End rose beneath the surface of his skin, cold as the edge of a knife. Lifting wallets, being robbed. Sleeping on rags, waking to gunshots. The creeps who would offer him five dollars for “favors,” and the times Jason almost took them up on the offer, no matter how humiliating, because he hadn’t eaten in days. “Because you didn’t grow up like I did,” Jason said quietly. Sighing, he kicked at the earth, scattering grass and dirt beneath him. “You didn’t watch it happen.”

“Watch what happen?”

“The cycle,” he replied. “People go to jail. They get out. They shoot, rape, steal, whatever, and then other people do too because they think they can get away with it. Nothing ever changes. I tried—” His voice broke again. Clearing his throat, he began once more. “I tried not to hurt people, which made me a target. And every time I was hurt, _ every time, _I knew that I had to put a stop to it. Roman told me that…well, you know…and I thought that would help. I was wrong.” 

He fell silent, and looked over to Dick to gauge his reaction. Pity? Disgust? Suspicion? No, none of that. Dick wasn’t even looking at him. His gaze was fixed on the ground, his lips pursed in thought. With his back to Wayne Manor, and the wind blowing through his hair, he seemed so very small, so very alone. And handsome too, though Jason hated to admit it. The thought only made him hate himself more.

“I saw my parents die,” Dick said at last. His eyes were unfocused and glassy, as if he were reliving the moment. “I thought that killing the man who murdered them would help me find closure. But my parents are still dead, and now I feel like a piece of shit for stooping to his level.”

Jason blinked, stunned. “You killed him?”

“Didn’t have to. Someone else beat me to it.”

_ Jackass! _“Oh, fuck you,” Jason snapped, and kicked the dirt again. Of course Dick didn’t do it. He should have known. “No offense, Birdie, but you didn’t even do it. And if you had the chance, I bet you wouldn’t do it all over again.” 

“You’re right!” Dick replied angrily. “Because then I’d be just like him!”

“Fuck that!”

“You can be the better person, Jay. Talk to Cass if you don’t believe me.” 

Jason snorted, turning away from Dick. Every moment he had to look at his stupid, genuine expression brought him closer to the edge of fury. He shouldn’t have told him. He should have just fucked off and gone on his own. “I bet you’d try to reason with Nazis too,” he muttered.

“What the fuck? What kind of a person do you think I am?”

“The kind who thinks stopping a fucking _ crime lord _ makes you just as bad as him!” he shouted. “Come _ on, _man. Did Batman brainwash you, or are you really that dense?”

Dick scoffed. “Well, forgive me for having morals,” he snapped. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Sometimes we’re rewarded for doing the right thing. Not everyone in the world is against you!” 

“Really?” Jason said flatly. He stared across the water, where the low buildings of East End were shadows before the rest of the city skyline. “Because it sure feels that way.” 

“Oh, come on.”

“My parents left me, Roman tried to kill me, and I know your civilian identities, which means everyone else sees me as some kind of threat or prize. Whoo-hoo!”

There was a pause. Over the rush of the wind, Jason could hear Dick shuffling, the grass crunching beneath his feet. Part of him gloated over the fact that he had shut him up—finally—while another, smaller part waited in the hope for Dick to…what? Prove him wrong? Feed him lies? 

“I’m not against you,” Dick said at last. "You're an asshole, but I'm not against you."

It felt good to hear. Jason couldn’t lie to himself about that, couldn’t ignore the small bubble of warmth expanding inside. And yet he couldn’t quite believe it, either. Every part of him wished he could listen, could let someone else tell him he was worth something. But it was a lie. He knew it was a lie. The most he could ever hope for would be to undo the damage he had already caused. To kill Roman. 

“Then help me,” he replied. Then, so to not appear dramatic, he added, “Or just let me leave. I don’t care.”

Dick took a deep breath. He stared out over the falling land and encroaching water, clearly struggling with something. Maybe he just needed a little extra push.

“Think about it,” Jason said. “Or is Batman keeping you on a tight leash these days? Wouldn’t blame him, what with you trying to cart me to Star City.”

“I’m my own person,” Dick replied, his voice laced with bitterness.

He snorted. “Yeah, right. Last time I checked, you ran right back to daddy when things went wrong.” 

Shit. Maybe that was too far. Dick’s lip curled in a defiant sneer; he took a step toward Jason with his good hand balled into a fist. “Shut up,” he hissed. 

Jason wanted to. Really, he did. But he could also see where everything was going: he _ was _ going to kill Roman, make him pay for everything he had done, and in the process lose whatever amiability had been growing between him and the man before him. Because that was how it had to go. He and Dick were akin to the like-poles of a magnet, fine together unless placed too close or changed for good. 

“You’re a coward,” he laughed. 

“I told you to _ shut up.” _

_ “Make me!” _

Dick didn’t try to hit him, as Jason hoped he would, though his uninjured arm twitched at his side. A second passed. Two seconds. Then his face lost some of its fervor, and he shook his head. “I really am on your side,” he said hotly. “Pushing me away isn’t going to do shit.”

“I’m not pushing you away,” Jason lied.

“Bullshit. You think there’s no other way.”

“There _ is _ no other way. Roman needs to die, and I’m going to be the one to do it,” Jason said. His chest, which had brought him no pain before, suddenly began to ache. “I _ want _to be the one to do it.”

Dick let out a cry of frustration, and whipped around, marching off toward the manor. Jason watched dumbly, then sighed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cooling off!” Dick shouted back. “If you leave, I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

_ No you won’t, _Jason thought, wondering if that was supposed to be a joke. Now alone, he lowered himself onto the grass, wincing as his leg burned with the motion. Fuck, that hurt. He touched the back of his leg, surprised to see his fingers come back clean. Huh. So the butler’s stitches hold well. 

Across the water, the clouds were parting over Gotham. Jason could make out individual buildings, the shadow of a crane, what could be Wayne Tower. None of them were Roman’s penthouse. That much was obvious from the lack of emptiness in his gut. 

Groaning, Jason let himself fall back onto the dirt. The air around him smelled green and sour, clearer than anything in the city proper. _ Inhale, exhale. _His heart was still pounding from his exchange with Dick, pushing against his chest, though it settled with each fleeting moment. 

_ This is how it has to be, _he had thought. 

_ Pushing me away isn’t going to do shit, _Dick had said. 

It didn’t seem like he was right. Everything Jason had ever experienced told him that it was better to do things alone, that he’d get judged and hurt even for the things he did right. That was how the world worked. He was impossible to support. To love. The sooner he accepted it, the easier everything would become. 

He closed his eyes, thought again of what Dick had said. _ I want you to be happy. _The words settled like pills in his gut, only he couldn’t decide if they were good or bad. Uppers or downers. 

Fuck. Jason wanted so badly to accept Dick’s advice, his help, his kindness, aching for it—for him—like a starving man aches for the smallest scraps of meat. No. Bad comparison. Dick felt more akin to banquet, warm and good and full of life. Why did it have to be this way?

Wait. Why _ did _ it have to be this way? 

He sat up suddenly, ignoring the burst of pain in his chest. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach began to churn. For more than seven years, he _ knew _ that he was imperfect and replaceable. He _ knew _ was going to die alone and unmourned, remembered only in passing before Roman found someone new to take his place. These were cold hard facts, right? Right? 

“Shit,” he breathed, and buried his face in his hands. He blinked away the wetness in his eyes, the sinking awareness that he did not want to die alone, he had _ never _wanted to die alone. When a small voice told him he was weak for these thoughts, he tried with everything he had not to listen. 

_ Don’t cry, you stupid piece of shit. No wonder Roman thinks you’re better off dead. You know Batman’s name and all you’re doing is sitting and crying. _

Jason shook his head. _ Stop, _ he thought. _ I want you to stop. _

_ This is your life you’re throwing away. The past seven years, everything you’ve learned, wasted. No more important than dirt. _

“No,” he muttered. 

_ Yes. Get up and kill Roman, or sit there like a stupid bitch and lose everything. _

His legs remained glued to the ground. Even if he wanted to move—did he want to move?—he wasn’t sure that he could. Everything hurt, as if a hammer had been taken to each of the muscle groups in his body, his head most of all. With each passing second a vice tightened around his temples, pushing and pushing until he was afraid his skull might crack at the slightest heartbeat. 

The afternoon sun, weak but still warm, fell down on the back of his neck. Jason sat still and let it loosen him. It had been some time since he’d felt a warmth like this, something genuine and natural rather than whatever momentary comfort he could find. True comfort was not something he deserved. Roman said so. _ You can be happy when you’re dead, _ he told him. _ Don’t even try. _

And then Roman shot him. It didn’t matter if Jason wasn’t meant to die, or if he was, or if Roman didn’t care. He just threw him away, like he didn’t matter at all. 

If he didn’t leave Dick behind, he’d lose everything, his…his… Did he even have anything to lose?

And then the truth, loud as the wind in his ears: 

No. He had nothing, because Roman had taken everything and gave him lies in return. His thoughts weren’t his own, his actions weren’t his own, even his wants were things he craved because he was supposed to. Nothing about Jason was _ Jason. _His whole being was a fabrication. 

Jason raised his head. The world was still there, big and cool and moving. He didn’t know what he had expected. 

His fingers curled around the grass, tugging gently so not to yank it up by its roots. The smell of summer grass pleased him. This was something _ he _liked. Not Roman. Jason. He also enjoyed the sound of water crashing over rocks, the taste of cold oranges, the feel of paper between his fingers. It had been so long since he had actively enjoyed these things, or anything, really. 

At once a newfound asperity made heat rise to his cheeks. Clenching his jaw, Jason let go of the grass and climbed to his feet. Roman’s fault. Everything, more than he could imagine, was Roman’s fault. All the blood he spilled: Roman’s fault. Every drunken night, every pill on his tongue: Roman’s fault. The scars on his body, old and new, wide and thin: Roman’s fault. Every time he fucked someone just to feel wanted, needed, _ something _: Roman’s fault. 

_ I want Roman to suffer, _ he thought, with more conviction than ever before. _ And once he’s lost everything, I want to be the one to kill him. _

But he didn’t want to do it alone. 

♟♟♟

He did not see Dick again until evening, which was fine by him. The distance gave him time to think. And more time to sit in the manor’s library, which was something he most definitely wanted to do. So many books to read: old ones, new ones, some he had read before and particularly enjoyed, a well-worn copy of _ The Hobbit _with original illustrations. Jason spent most of the time exploring the space, memorizing the locations of books to read—as if he’d have the time, or the opportunity—and some of the time flipping through books. The rest of the time, he wrote.

There was a small seating section in the middle of the library, not unlike the seating at the Gotham Public Library, though it was nicer by far. Jason sat at a table and scribbled down everything he could remember about Roman’s enterprise. Dates. Products. Locations. People. “Business” partners. Every place Roman travelled to, every strange object he brought back. If Jason remembered it, he wrote it down. 

“Alfred told me I’d find you here,” Dick said. 

Jason looked up from the paper. Dick stood in the doorway, a neutral expression pasted over his tired face. He was handsome this way, with his hair slightly tousled wearing nothing but athletic sweats and a tee shirt. For a moment Jason hated him for it, and then wondered why his instincts told him to. 

_ Not your instincts. Roman’s. _

He cleared his throat. “I’m pretty sure your butler is omniscient,” he replied.

“In this house? Yeah.”

“I’m serious. He brought me here before I could even ask. Gave me this—” Jason motioned to the empty cup of tea on the table. “I didn’t even see him hand it to me.”

Dick smiled as he took the seat across from Jason. “He does that,” he said.

Jason did not want to smile back, so he didn’t. It would make the next part seem more sincere anyway. “Here,” he said, pushing the papers across the table. “It’s not everything, but it’s a start.”

“A start? To what?”

“To taking down Roman.” Jason chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes wandering toward the Gothic windows that towered above them. He could not look Dick in the eyes. “Look,” he began, “I don’t want to…I don’t want to fight you anymore. We’ll have a better shot at taking him down if we work together.” 

Dick paused, biting his lower lip. Then he said, “I’m not going to be a part of something that ends with you killing someone.”

Jason had been expecting this, and understood. There was no point trying to convince him otherwise, not here, not now. No. Dick needed to _ see. _

“I get it,” he said. “But that’s not what matters right now. We need to dismantle his whole empire. The False Face Society is like a hydra. Cut off one head—”

“You’re not going to cut off anyone’s head.”

Jason ignored him. “—and another grows back. You won’t really make a difference unless you burn the whole thing to the ground.” 

“Uh huh,” Dick said. He didn’t add anything else. 

_ Help me, _ Jason wanted to say. It wasn’t that he needed help, or that he needed the legitimacy of a Bat by his side. Rather, the thought of being alone again left him empty inside. And the thought of returning to Roman, with no one to tether him to what was real and what he wanted… He wanted someone to come with him. He _ needed _someone to come with him. 

“Please,” he said softly. “We can do this. Forget everything else.” 

Dick stared at the papers, then at Jason. His face was impossible to read, though he did not appear to be either angry or amused, which was good. Those two emotions would have been hard to conquer. 

Then, at last, he spoke:

“No one dies.”

Jason held back the indignation on his tongue. “Fine.”

“And I want to run this by the others. We’re not going to keep them in the dark.”

“Still need daddy’s permission, huh?”

Dick gave him a sharp look. 

God damn it. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, could he? “Sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I said that.” 

“You’re an ass, Jason.” 

“That’s fair,” he replied, and stood. “So…?”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “So what?”

“What do you want to do first? Give Robin some data, give Batman some encryption keys, or…?” Jason shuffled from foot to foot, running his hands through his hair. He could feel his heart beating faster in anticipation of the mission; his mind wandered toward visions of his hands around Roman’s neck. _ Let’s go, _ he thought. _ I want him to suffer. _

Dick watched him, eyes narrowed with concern. When he said nothing, Jason huffed. “Come _ on. _We need to get going.” 

“Are you okay?” Dick asked. “You look…you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine! I just need to do this, okay? I _ need _to,” he said again, swallowing the dryness in his throat. “The sooner it’s over, the better.”

“Listen. We need to come up with a plan. This—” He gestured to the papers, his mouth a hard line.

Jason waited for him to say the inevitable, that it was useless and stupid and he was the same for thinking it would do them any good. _ Of course it’s all useless, Roman would have changed half this shit by now. _

“—is a great start,” Dick finished. “Really. But it’s not the same as a course of action.”

_ Oh. _ A small weight fell from Jason’s shoulders, though it returned when he realized why it was there in the first place. _ Roman is still in your head, _ the voices hissed. _ He’ll always be here, even when he’s six feet under. _

Fuck. Was anything about him his own?

Dick stopped talking about the papers. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t need to lie, Jay. Not to me.”

Jason said nothing, and Dick sighed.

“You know, if you keep everything bottled up, you’re gonna explode.” 

“I know,” Jason said.

“I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself.”

“Where’d you learn that? Vigilantes Anonymous?”

"Admitting you have a problem is step one."

A problem. Jason thought for a moment, searching himself to see if there was even anything to voice—not that he would—or if his problem was with everything; with himself.

Well. There was also the drinking and the recreational drugs, but those didn’t count, not really. It had been over a week since he’d gotten proper drunk, and he never _ needed _any pills or powder. Those were just some things he did when he was particularly bored with feeling nothing, or when he felt like getting laid but didn’t want to remember it. Which was pretty much every time, now that he thought about it. 

“I have lots of problems,” Jason said. 

"And?"

"And I'm not gonna talk about them."

Dick bit his lip. "Fine," he said. “Just know I’m here for you, buddy.” 

“I’m not your buddy.”

Holding up the papers, Dick grinned and motioned between them. “What would you call this, then?”

“A reluctant partnership,” Jason lied, unable to admit that he didn’t know, and couldn’t even think about, what he would have done if Dick refused to help him. Alone, in Gotham, with no resources, no support, no Nightwing. Even when he worked for Roman he at least had a bed to return to.

Dick, luckily, could not read his mind. Laughing, he placed a hand over his heart and batted his eyelashes. “Aww. Stop it, you,” he drawled. “You’re flattering me.”

Jason grunted and looked away. There were many truthful compliments he could offer, about Dick’s kindness and earnestness, or the rich blue of his irises. But they calcified at the tip of his tongue, and his mouth remained closed. 

“But in all seriousness,” Dick continued, his voice softer than before. He leaned over the table and placed his hand on Jason’s arm. His palm was warm and calloused, an acrobat’s hand. “I’m happy to have you as a partner, Jason.”

“Thanks,” Jason muttered, staring at Dick’s hand. Strange how he had forgotten the feeling of a gentle touch, and now, looking at it happen to him, he did not know how to react. How strange life was, to give everything to one person and take it all from another. Jason knew he should be jealous of Dick, of his beautiful features, his bright smile, his talent, his family. But he couldn’t. All he could do was wish for Dick to rest his hand there forever, so that he would never feel alone again. 

And then his hand was gone. “Right,” Dick said. He stood quickly and turned away from Jason. “What next?”

Jason breathed deeply. The library felt colder now. “Like you said. We need a plan,” he said, pushing aside the deep-set ache inside him. That was not important. He needed to focus all his energy on taking down Roman, which meant he couldn’t waste time dwelling on emotions. _Remember, _he reminded himself, _you want_ _to make Roman suffer. Nothing else matters. _

In the end, they bring Tim in to look at everything. Timothy Drake, Robin II. Somehow, this fact was both more and less strange than knowing Richard Grayson was Nightwing. Perhaps it was because Jason had met Dick before he got to know Nightwing, meaning that he had to reconcile two personas into one, while this isn’t the case for Robin II. Here he just had to look at a normal sixteen year-old boy and roll with the fact that he moonlights as a crime-fighting bird.

Though, come to think of it, Jason was doing the same thing at his age. Almost the same thing. 

“This code,” Tim said, pointing to one of many. “It’s unlabelled.”

“That one?” Jason followed his gesture. The numbers 1985386 stared back at him. “That’s to the elevator.” 

“Of the Sionis Building?” Dick asked.

“His penthouse. That’s where…” _ Where he used to keep me. _“…where I used to live. I’ve never been to the Sionis Building.” A lie. He’d been a few times, though he’d hardly seen anything useful. Sionis Industries was largely shut down, though Roman had never officially ended things. The narcissistic bastard probably kept the building up to boost his ego. After all, wasn’t that what he used to say about Bruce Wayne? 

_ Wayne is driving his father’s work into the dirt. The only reason the man hasn’t given up the Tower is because he likes seeing his name written across the sky. _

“Actually that’s not true,” Jason added. Why did he lie? What was wrong with him? “I don’t know if I’m right, but I think he uses the Sionis Building mainly for storage. Weapons, technology, um, and stuff.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Stuff?”

“Stuff.”

Tim tapped his finger on his desk, then started typing furiously on his computer. “Where’s the money coming from?” he asked. A file on Black Mask popped up, displaying a blurry picture of Roman in his mask. In his hands, an AK-74, brandished with the same poise and informality as one might brandish an umbrella. The sight made Jason’s stomach flip uncomfortably. 

“Uh, the normal,” he replied. “Drug trafficking, arms dealing, smuggling, extortion, all of it. He’s basically running a criminal pyramid scheme.” 

“Recruit some friends, move up a rung on the ladder,” Dick mused. 

“Yup.”

“I’ll tell you this much,” Tim said. “The guy is really good at covering his tracks. We’ve been after him for years and have only connected him to the faintest traces of criminal activity. Which, like, half of Gotham’s businessmen are guilty of.” 

Huh. Maybe Robin II wasn’t so bad after all. 

“So we draw him out into the open,” Dick said. His fingers found a piece of scrap paper and began to fold it absent-mindedly. “Force him to make a mistake.”

“Should be easy for you,” Tim said with a smile. “You’ve got plenty of experience annoying the crap out of people.” 

But Jason shook his head. “We’ve got to start lower on the totem pole. Knock out the base…” He mimed a tumbling motion. “…and the top comes crashing down with it.” 

“How do you suppose we do that?” asked Tim.

Chewing his cheek, Jason stared at Roman’s mask on the computer screen, that cruel black skull that gave off an air of danger even to him. Everyone is afraid of the Black Mask. This he knew for certain. He’d seen how people trembled at his feet. No matter what deals they offered them, Roman’s men would never take them, never back down, because fear is the ultimate motivator. 

“Give them a reason to fear us more,” he muttered. “Most of them are only loyal to Roman for two reasons. One, they don’t want to get on his bad side, and two, things have been working out for them so far. The moment someone more dangerous comes along, the moment things start to go south…”

“They switch sides,” Dick finished. 

“Bingo.”

Both of them looked to Tim, who sat quietly, hands folded in front of his face. He sighed deeply, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, then added, “I’m not saying it’s a good idea, but how could we make it work?”

Dick cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“We’re the good guys, Dick. We don’t kidnap people, we don’t torture people—”

At this Jason nearly scoffed, but held his tongue. _ It was a lie, _ he reminded himself. _ Everything, a lie. _

“—and everyone knows that we don’t kill,” Tim finished. “To top it all off, we’ve never gotten close to nailing Black Mask. How the hell would we convince a bunch of grunts that they should fear _ us _ more than _ him? _”

“Not you,” Jason said. “Me.”

The others turned to stare at him. Tim appeared surprised, but Dick’s gaze was much more accusatory, or maybe it was disappointed. 

“Look,” he continued, before either of them could say anything, “I’m the perfect candidate. Roman took me in and trained me, meaning they know _ exactly _ what I’m capable of. Then there’s the fact that I betrayed him, which will make me seem crazy or fearless or whatever. _ And _ the higher-ups will have fewer issues working for me than, say, Maroni or someone.” 

“Maybe,” Dick said, his face hard, “but there’s the tiny problem of _ you won’t kill anyone either.” _

Tim shook his head, and Jason braced himself for a complete shutdown, two against one. But then Tim said, “No, Jason’s right. No one knows he’s working with us.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dick replied. “If he doesn’t cross the line, why what reason would Black Mask’s men have to fear him?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jason said.

“No. Spill.”

He smiled. “They’ll fear me because I’m going to kill you.”

“Excuse me?” Tim demanded.

“Calm down, junior,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not actually going to kill big birdie over here. It’s just—”

“—pretend,” Dick finished, realization dawning on his face. He shook his head, grinning wildly. “Jay, you’re incredible.”

Jason could feel a furious heat rising to his cheeks. Hopefully the dim lighting in Tim’s room—lair? Office?—would disguise it, though he turned away just to make sure. Damn. Since when did compliments do this to him? “It’s just an idea,” he muttered. “We don’t even know if it’ll work.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Yeah,” Tim added. He seemed to have cooled down, and was back to typing away on his computer. “I think we’ve got a real shot.” 

Jason stood awkwardly, saying nothing. From the corner of his vision he could see Dick giving him a dopish smile, and his blush deepened. _ Shut up, _he wanted to say, even though no one was saying anything.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, “Well. Let’s do it.” 

“Right,” Dick said, a little too quickly. Now he was blushing. Backing out the door, he added, “I’m gonna…I’m gonna talk to Brass. I mean, Bruce and Cass.” 

Jason allowed himself the ghost of a smile, not because of Dick, but because he could not help but catch the irony. All this time, and he was finally going to kill a Bat. Maybe even Roman would be proud of—

No. No he wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Plot! I just love me some _Under the Red Hood_ elements.
> 
> Seriously though. I love to talk to people! Please don't hesitate to [say hello](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP).


	16. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day my dudes! 
> 
> The good news is: I’ve got a new chapter for you all! The bad news is: I’m going to be publishing much less frequently until the end of April—my last semester of grad school has caught up to me and I can’t devote nearly as much time to fic as I would like to. I will be posting a chapter of “Red” in the next few days, then after that, I will only be posting when I can. In the meantime, feel free to contact me by email or on [Discord](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP)!
> 
> No warnings for this chapter??? What???

Jason watched the butler cut the cast from Dick’s arm. The saw hummed quietly as it cut through the plaster, masking the awkward silence of the room. At least, he assumed it was awkward. Dick would not have had a broken arm if Jason didn’t betray them. Hell, a_ lot _ of things wouldn’t have happened if Jason had the mind to be a decent person. He knew it. They knew it too. And so he sat in guilt, listening to the saw scratch it’s way down to Dick’s skin. 

It didn’t help that _ Bruce Fucking Wayne _ was standing behind him. His presence made Jason feel small, younger too, like a child caught misbehaving. Even worse: his face was utterly impassive. His sharp blue eyes settled from person to person, betraying nothing. 

The saw continued to hum. Dust flew into the air, falling around their shoulders and onto the old wooden floor. Why Wayne Manor had a room with nothing but a table was beyond Jason. But it did not surprise him. Had he been forced to fill this place with furniture, he would have run out of ideas too. 

Alfred was the first to speak. “Master Richard,” he began. “If you would rotate your arm, please.”

Dick did as he was asked, exposing an unbroken part of his cast. He sent Jason a look that was neither accusatory nor inquisitive. In fact, it was almost neutral: _ this is interesting, isn’t it? _

Jason shrugged in response. He’d had a few casts removed, though the saw Lionel used was for bone and cut his skin as well as the plaster. Jason, not knowing that they had proper tools for this kind of thing, kept his mouth shut. One word of protest, and he knew Roman would have his bones broken again. 

The scars on his forearms, thin white lines carved into his skin, began to itch. Jesus Christ. How did he not see how fucked up that was? 

His fingers found the stitches on his leg. He couldn’t pick at them through the fabric of his joggers, but he tried nonetheless, scratching at the cotton as if it were his own skin. _ Don’t do it, _he thought, but still his fingers pressed into his leg. They just wouldn’t listen. 

A few more cuts, and the cast fell from Dick’s arm. The skin beneath was sickly pale and damp with sweat. Dick held his arm against his chest and rubbed it gently, picking off dark flakes of plaster and pieces of fuzz. 

“You’ll want to cleanse the skin, Master Richard,” Alfred said, which Jason supposed was code for _ your arm smells like moldy armpit. _

Dick nodded, flexing his fingers as if he had forgotten how. “Thanks, Alfred.”

Without the humming of the saw, the ensuing silence was too much for Jason. “How’s it feel?” he asked, if only to fill the void. 

“A little sore, but not bad. It’ll be back to normal in a few days.” He chuckled, and threw Jason a thumbs-up. “That’s League medicine for you, babe.”

“It’s advanced, not foolproof,” Bruce said, frowning. “Dick, don’t take things too fast. I don’t want you to—”

“—I know, Bruce,” Dick replied sharply. He picked up his jacket and swung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. C’mon, Jay.”

“Wait.”

Jason stopped in his tracks, afraid to look at Bruce. How was it, that after a week in the manor, he still could not look the man in the eye? Bruce was not Roman; he forgave. He understood. And yet, Jason was unable to peel his gaze from the floor.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t know about him,” Dick said, “but I’m going to go take a shower. Why?”

“You know what I mean.”

Alfred, wisely, gathered up the remnants of Dick’s cast and nodded in farewell. “If anyone should need me, I will be in the kitchen,” he said. Then, with a half-smile at Jason, added, “Do try not to rip out your stitches, Master Todd.”

Jason blushed. “I’ll do my best,” he muttered.

And then the silence returned. 

They had to tell Bruce sometime. Jason wasn’t stupid; he knew that they couldn’t pull something as big as _ destroy Roman’s empire _without the Bat getting a whiff of it. Hell, Dick even said that he wanted Bruce’s approval. But at the same time, he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he could prove anything. He didn’t know if Bruce would believe him—and if he didn’t, it’s not like Jason could blame the guy.

“You haven’t told me everything,” Bruce said. “You two, and Tim. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the plans you’ve been making, the blueprints you’ve been pulling from the computer.” From his pocket, he procured a diagram of a building. The label at the top read, SIONIS INDUSTRIES PUBLIC PLAN. 

“Bruce,” Dick said.

Jason cut him off. “I’ve got this,” he muttered. Whether he was talking to Dick, or himself, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t keep letting Dick make excuses. It wasn’t fair to either of them. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Taking a deep breath, Jason began. _ Don’t stutter, _ he thought as he spoke. _ It’s simple. You don’t need to fear his response. The worst he can say is ‘no.’ _

“He’s not actually going to kill me,” Dick added at the end. 

“Thank you for the clarification,” Bruce replied. 

Jason bit his lip, then said, “I know what I’m doing. I know this is the best way to take down the False Face Society. The only way.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“So what is it,” Dick asked. “You’ve got that look, B. Why do you think it’s not going to work?”

Bruce shook his head. “On the contrary, I think your plan has potential.” 

_ Really? _

But he wasn’t done. Of course he wasn’t. Crossing his arms, Bruce added, “What worries me are the key players. Dick, you’ve just got out of a cast. And Jason…” 

“What?” he demanded, raising his head to stand at his full height. The man had one, two inches on him, though they were built roughly the same. And Jason was young, yes, but not a child. He had never been a child. “Who else can do this?” 

“I think you should take some time. Figure out if this is what you want.”

“This _ is _ what I want!” Jason hissed. His fists clenched at his sides; he struggled to keep them still. “I want to see Roman lose everything he’s built, and then I want to see him—” _ Dead. _“—rot in prison.”

Bruce appeared unmoved by the outburst. “The things you’ve been through—”

“I’m not asking for your permission.”

“Jay,” Dick said softly.

“No. He needs to know. Roman fucked up my life, and he’s gonna keep fucking up lives until someone stops him. How can you expect me to just stay here cooped up like a fucked-up bird?”

“I expect you to take care of yourself,” Bruce replied. With a pointed look at Dick, he added, “Both of you.”

Dick nodded slowly. “We don’t plan on getting hurt, B.”

_ Maybe you don’t, _Jason thought. But he held his tongue. That was quite possibly the worst thing to say at the moment, and served only to make him ill once again. Of course the Robins took to the night knowing they would not receive injuries. How many scars did Bruce receive protecting his baby birds? 

Bruce pursed his lips, then gave them a curt nod. “You will report back to me with status updates. And you won’t wear uniforms until both of you are functioning at one hundred percent. Understand?”

“Gotcha,” Dick said. 

Jason, caught in his own thoughts, muttered, “Yes, sir—I mean, yeah.”

Something passed over Bruce’s eyes, and his face softened. He stepped toward Jason, who did not flinch, at least not visibly. “Is something on your mind, son?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve got a bullet hole in my shoulder,” he replied, forcing out a laugh, “so you can imagine the things I think about.” 

A hand settled on his shoulder. When Jason looked up, he saw that Bruce’s blue eyes were filled with a compassion he did not expect from the man. “No,” Bruce said softly. “I can’t imagine.”

_ Oh. _ His face warmed when he realized what Bruce was talking about. Stupid Bats and their stupid sympathy. Jason didn’t want them to pity him; he didn’t _ need _them to pity him. What’s done is done. Their puppy-dog eyes only make him feel worse.

“Hard to believe you’ve never been shot,” Jason laughed, and the hand fell from his shoulder. “What’s that Bat Suit made of? Diamond?” 

“Anti-ballistic and abrasion-resistant material, actually.”

“So, basically diamond,” Dick added.

Jason shrugged. If he were trying to cause a fight—which he wasn’t, but might have, were he still under Roman’s control—he would have said something along the lines of, _ let me guess: you bought your way onto the League, didn’t you? _But even with all his money and class and prestige, Bruce wasn’t like the men Roman surrounded himself with. He was kind. He was genuine. He knew where he was coming from and, as far as Jason could tell, used his privilege to help others. 

Still, Jason couldn’t quite keep his mouth shut. 

“Huh,” he said. “Guess wealth is its own kind of superpower.”

A shadow of a smile fell over Bruce, but disappeared just as quickly. “Go get some rest,” he told them. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

That, Jason could do. He didn’t want to sleep, but the thought of curling up with a book lifted a weight off his shoulders. It had been a few days since he had read for pleasure and the lack of fiction was starting to get to him. 

“Oh, and Dick?” Bruce added.

Dick turned around. “What?”

“Take a shower. Your arm smells really weird.”

As they left, Jason leaned over and said, “He’s right, you know.”

“Wait. You don’t like this smell?” Dick held up his arm, grinning. “And here I was thinking ‘eau de musty arm sweat’ would be a kick-ass perfume line.”

“Emphasis on ‘ass.’”

Dick winked. “Always,” he said, and clapped Jason on the shoulder. “Meet you in the library?”

Jason shrugged. “If you want.” 

“I want.”

Not knowing what else to say, Jason mumbled something about _ knowing how to read _and split off from Dick. As soon as he was gone, he felt like he could breathe again. Strange. He didn’t realize that he hadn’t been, until that moment.

It had taken him a week, but he had finally gotten the layout of the manor. At first he stumbled into galleries while looking for a bathroom, but when he realized he did not need to know what all the rooms were, he memorized only a few. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. Dining. Library. Those were all he needed.

He opened the library door, and his body tensed. There was someone else inside the library. It’s not that he could see them, or hear them, but the air felt disturbed, like someone had just run through. _ Don’t worry, _ he told himself, knowing that Batman’s house of all places was safe from intruders. And yet he walked cautiously through the shelves. _ Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t— _

“It’s you,” Cass said. 

Jason looked up. The girl was perched above the shelves, looking down. “Jesus,” he muttered, shaking off the adrenaline rush that had taken him. “Why were you hiding?”

“You came in.”

“Huh,” he said, watching her swing down from the shelves. Light as a feather, though something told him she could tear him apart at the seams. “How’d you get up there, anyway?”

Cass shrugged. “I climbed.”

“Oh.” 

“You were scared,” she said. It was not a question.

Jason felt himself laughing. “That’s ‘cause you popped out of nowhere. Coulda given me a fucking heart attack.” 

“But I didn’t. You’re not old.”

He scoffed, trailing his fingers along the books in front of him. Atwood… Atwood… There. “Alright,” he said, grabbing the book he was searching for. “I’m gonna read, if you don’t mind.”

Cass said nothing.

_ Great. _“Do you…want to read with me?”

“No,” she replied. “But I’ll sit.” 

Jason pulled a face that he hoped to be friendly but was likely just awkward. He took a seat at one of the lounges and buried his nose in the book, pretending he was unbothered by the quiet shadow sitting next to him. But as he read, and Cass stayed silent, he soon found he didn’t need to pretend. It was almost as if he were alone.

Almost.

“I know what it’s like,” Cass said. 

He set the book down.

“What what’s like?”

She tucked her knees into her chest, and Jason saw that she wasn’t wearing shoes, only a pair of bright, patterned socks. No wonder she could move so silently. 

“David Cain was a bad man,” she said. 

At first Jason stared, not quite able to work out what she meant. But then he remembered a name—Cassandra Cain—and realized that he was sitting beside an assassin’s daughter. _ Oh, _he thought, and his gut grew heavy. 

Cass fixed him with her large black eyes. “Did your father make you kill people too?” 

“Roman is _ not _ my father,” he said, but deep down he knew that wasn’t the important part. He knew Roman better than he knew his own parents, and for a time had liked him more than he ever liked Willis or Catherine. He _ admired _him. 

“Sometimes he was proud of me,” Cass said. “He didn’t talk. But I could tell. I liked that.”

Now it was Jason’s turn to say nothing. But he knew. And something told him that Cass knew too. 

When he looked up, he saw that she was smiling at him. “It gets easier,” Cass said. “With friends.”

_ I don’t have friends, _he thought. What he had was simple: a few people who wanted, at least tangentially, the same thing he did. That was the reality of things. It didn’t matter that they were nice to him, and that he didn’t exactly hate them. They were partners; nothing more.

Right?

Just then, the doors to the library opened, and Tim walked into view. Jason poured his attention back into the book, hoping that Robin wasn’t as good as reading body language as Cass was. God knows what pathetic scene he’d find there. 

“Hey guys,” Tim said, plopping down next to Jason. His bag thudded to the floor. “Having fun?”

“Sure,” Jason replied. He turned a page, realized he had read nothing, and turned it back. 

Turning to Cass, Tim asked, “This guy bugging you?”

“No. I think I’m bugging him.”

“You’re not,” Jason said quickly. “I’m just tired.” 

It was a half-truth. He _ was _ tired, not in the “I need to sleep” sense, but in a more existential sense. He was tired of feeling watched, pitied, judged, evaluated, or whatever. First Bruce, then Cass. Why couldn’t he just _ stop feeling. _

“Bruce told me you guys told him,” Tim said. 

“That was quick.”

“News travels fast around here.”

“I see.”

“Are you actually reading, or are you just turning pages?”

This time, he was reading. Clearing his throat, he repeats the lines in his hands. “_ Now her face was on a level with mine. I thought I recognized her; or at least there was something familiar about— _”

“It’s fine,” Tim says. “I wasn’t doubting your ability to read.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one, if you were,” Jason replied.

“You’re good at reading out loud. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Jason paused. “No.”

“Very soothing,” Cass says.

What was this, “be nice to Jason” hour? “Why are you here, Birdhead?” he asked.

Tim laughed. He had a very soft laugh, but it didn’t feel ingenuine. “Birdhead,” he repeated, drawing his laptop from his bag. “That’s new.”

Cass back the top of Tim’s head, where a cowlick caused his hair to stand like feathers. “You are a birdhead.”

“Thanks Cass.” 

“So, what is it?” Jason asked, watching Tim as he opened a program and started plugging in numbers.

“What do you weigh? One-ninety?”

“Two hundred,” he replied. He could feel his patience stretching thin, like a rubber band in his chest. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Costume design.”

_ You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. _“Costume?”

“Costume, body armor, uniform, whatever you want to call it. You’ll need a real one, if you want people to take you seriously.”

“Says the guy dressed like a flamboyant bird,” Jason replied. 

As Cass smiled, Tim scoffed. “Careful. I could make sure you’re wearing neon spanx.” 

“Please,” he said, “I’d rock those motherfuckers.”

“Rock what?” Dick asked.

Jason did not hear him come in. He stood apart from their little cluster of chairs, a dopish smile on his face. Wet locks of jet-black hair hung around his ears. A handsome picture, maybe. 

Tim shakes his head. “Go away, Dick. The last thing we need is _ your _advice.”

“What? Why—” Dick’s eyes narrowed. “B’s gonna make him a uniform, isn’t he.”

Cass leans over to Jason and whispers, “He has made bad choices.”

“What?” he whispers back.

“Bright uniform. Like disco suit.”

“Don’t spread lies, Cass,” Dick says. 

She smiles and scoots away from Jason. He wonders what she’s talking about, then realizes that he doesn’t really care. Even if Dick’s suit was as bad as she was implying, Jason can’t imagine that Dick would look bad in it. If he could make an ugly Hawaiian shirt look decent, then he’d probably—

Nope. Enough of those thoughts. Jason picks up his book and shrugs.

“Look,” he says, “just give me something simple. No latex. No neon. The darker, the better. Got it?”

“What are you talking about?” Dick asks. “Every good villain needs an _ aesthetic. _” 

“Maybe my ‘aesthetic’ is _ shut the fuck up.” _

Dick gave him a cloy smile. “If I shut up, the world would be a lot more boring.” 

“It’d be a lot less annoying, I’ll tell you that,” Tim said. He started chewing his thumbnail; with his other hand, he typed furiously. “What about the head?”

“What about the head?” Jason repeated.

“Bruce won’t let you go without something covering your face,” he explained. “So what will it be? Full mask? Half mask? Helmet? Bandana?”

“Ooh, bandana,” Dick said. “Like outlaw country.”

“Roman had me cover the bottom half of my face,” Jason said, gesturing to the area. Strange. He had gone from knowing that thing like the back of his hand to nearly forgetting about it. He couldn’t even remember what the material smelled like, how it felt in the heat of the fight. 

“Is that what you want?” Tim asked, the unsaid hanging heavy between them. _ Are you sure you want something that reminds you of Roman? _

Contrary to what they all thought, Jason didn’t tremble in fear at the mention of Roman’s name, or at anything Roman-related, really. “It’s what I’m used to, isn’t it?” he said. 

“Okay. Dark. Simple. Half-mask. Anything else?”

“_ Bor-ing,” _Dick drawled. “Even Bruce—ow!”

Jason had not seen Cass move. But she must have, because she was standing next to Dick, arms crossed. Dick was still rubbing the spot on his ribs where she had poked him. 

What was this? What even was this? His eyes moved between the three of them, watching how they smiled at one another even when they weren’t actually smiling. It seemed like—oh, he didn’t know—something out of a sitcom, maybe? Except that couldn’t be right, because sitcoms were crazy unrealistic. Nobody laughed with each other in real life, not unless they were mocking someone else. 

Or maybe that’s just what he was taught to believe. 

Either way, it hurt him to look at. Jason grabbed his book and stood, scowling at the ornate carpet beneath their feet. “I’m going to go lie down,” he said. “Just do whatever.”

“You’re sure?” Tim asked. 

Jason nodded, all-too-aware of Cass’ eyes burning into his face. They didn’t seem angry at least. If anything, they were mildly concerned. But they had nothing on Dick, who seemed straight-up disappointed. Idiot. It’s not like he’s missing out on good company. They’d all have more fun if they didn’t have to tip-toe around the _ sad, traumatized little boy _in their midst. 

In his room—nope, not _ his _room; the room they let him use—Jason falls back onto the bed and tries to work up the strength to read. But nothing came. And so he lay there, staring at the elegant designs on the ceiling until he could close his eyes and picture them still. 

Maybe he should have stayed with them. It’s not like t would have hurt him to do so. What’s the worst that would have happened? Scattered moments where he felt awkward? 

_ It gets better, _ Cass said. _ With friends. _

Jason rolled over and tried not to think about it. Of course, that only made him think about it more:

_ I don’t have friends. Maybe I could have, if Roman didn’t turn me into a weapon. Maybe I still could, but not with _ them, _ because they see me as something broken, right? And would they even like me after all I did? Sure, they like Cass, but nothing she did was her fault. She didn’t choose to be the daughter of an assassin. I chose— _

_ No. I didn’t. That’s exactly what Roman would want me to think. All of this is _ exactly _ what Roman would want me to think. _

God damn it.

“Get out of my head,” he muttered into his pillow. He didn’t expect it to do anything, didn’t expect some quasi-magical moment where all of Roman was expelled from his mind like smoke from a chimney. But voicing it helped nonetheless. Maybe, someday, the words would actually take root. 

At some point, he realized that he had fallen asleep. The sky outside was a deep orange, almost red, heavy as Jason felt. Fuck. He must have slept an hour, and he was more tired than when he had left the library. 

“Jay?”

When he sat up, he found that he was looking at Dick. A blush spread over his face, followed quickly by a scowl. “What are you doing here?” he asked, blinking away the sleep in his eyes.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to eat.” He paused, then added, “I mean, you probably should. Otherwise Bruce might start to worry.”

Jason snorted.

“What?”

“_ Start to worry,” _Jason repeated, his voice a poor falsetto. “Who does he think he is, my dad?”

Dick shrugged. “Well, he does have a track record of picking up orphans.”

Huh. So Roman was right about one thing: Batman did have a habit of collecting children. Of course, it didn’t seem to be nearly as bad as Roman made it out to be. Like taking in feral cats because you love them and not because you want the world to know you are a good person. 

Oh, fuck. Was he another stray? 

“No offense to Bruce,” Jason said, “but I don’t have a great track record when it comes to dads. I think I’m gonna stay solo on this.”

“That’s probably for the best, considering you’re about to kill his most attractive ward,” Dick replied, giving him an unbelievably smarmy smile. 

Jason grimaced to hide the palpitations of his heart. “I’m not going to give that the dignity of a response.”

Laughing, Dick said, “That’s fair. You coming to dinner?”

Anything to keep them from thinking that he was broken. “Sure,” Jason mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Whatever.”

As they walked through the halls, he found himself staring at Dick, thinking about what he had said. It was ridiculous, obviously. Tim, Cass, Dick, they were all attractive, perhaps even ridiculously so, with their tar-black hair and expressive eyes. To say that one was more attractive than another would be absurd, like comparing rubies and sapphires and emeralds. 

And yet looking at Dick, Jason’s whole being surged inside his body. It infuriated him, that one person could be so handsome and charming and _ loved. _ How dare he? How _ dare _he? Jason didn’t know if he wanted to hit him or kiss him. 

“You’re cute when you’re sleeping,” Dick said suddenly.

Nevermind. Jason wanted to hit him. “Say that again,” he replied, “and I’ll knock out your front teeth.”

“Alright, alright.” Dick held up his hands in a mocker of surrender. “You’re not cute when you’re sleeping. In fact, you’re positively hideous. Happy?”

“Thank you.”

“Any time, my grotesque comrade.”

Now Jason was smiling too. But his smile faded as a renewed sense of guilt surrounded him. He didn’t know why he felt this way; perhaps there were too many reasons to count. Strange how things could turn on their heads in an instant. 

“How’s your arm?” he asked quietly. 

“Better now that I’m clean.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “What are you sorry for? It’s fine.”

Jason stopped in the middle of the hall, not ten feet away from the dining hall. He could hear Tim saying something, could hear Alfred’s curt reply. So he kept his voice down. “I don’t think I apologized,” he said, eyeing the fading scratch on Dick’s throat. “For trying to kill you.”

Dick stopped too. “What?” 

“It doesn’t matter what Roman taught me, _ ”  _ Jason said. “I had so many chances to do the right thing,  _ so many,  _ and I kept choosing to do otherwise. And I think…” He paused to swallow the dryness in his throat. “I think I knew it was bad. Everything I did, I told myself it was for a greater good, but…I knew.”

Jason took a deep breath; as he released it he felt something lifted from him, like a veil from his eyes. Then, before Dick could ruin it, he continued. 

“And yeah,” he said, “I’ve been through shit. I know it. And you’ve made it clear that you do too. But that doesn’t excuse anything, and that  _ doesn’t  _ make me all kinds of broken, got it?”

Silence followed. They both shuffled uncomfortably, Jason more than Dick. It was the way Dick was staring at him. There was no pity in his eyes, just...understanding.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “You were a bastard. Still are.”

“I know.” 

“And I forgive you.” 

Though Jason could not see his face, he was well aware of just how incredulous he looked. “You forgive me,” he repeated, having somewhat expected this even though the words rang hollow in his ears.

Dick shrugged. “I’ll accept that you’re at fault, you have to accept that you can be forgiven. It’s only fair.” 

Jason said nothing.

“You don’t need to accept it right now,” he added quickly. “I get it. These things take time.”

“I see.”

“But I swear to god, if you don’t stop being an asshole...”

“Understood,” Jason replied quickly. 

Dick extended a hand. “In the meantime, can we be friends?”

_ Friends. _ Roman would hate that. And Jason, the _ real _Jason, he didn’t hate that idea at all. Maybe he even liked it. 

He took Dick’s hand. “Friends,” he said, feeling the word take a new life on his tongue. When Dick smiled at him, he returned the expression, wondering all the while if this is what it felt like to be unconfined. Free. There was no ulterior motive, no lies, no alliances of any kind. Just him and Dick.

With a start, he realized he was still holding Dick’s hand. Jason let go at once, only to see that Dick’s face looked as red as his felt. Well. At least they were on the same page.

Jason chuckled awkwardly. “Too bad I’m gonna have to kill you,” he said.

“Yes, that kind of puts a damper on things, doesn’t it?”

“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I promise to be gentle.”

“That’s okay. I can take it.” 

“Can you?”

“Always.” Dick grinned, then pointed toward the dining hall. “We should probably—”

“—Right. Yeah.” 

“Wouldn’t want them thinking we’re...scheming, or something.” 

“Or something,” Jason repeated. He smoothed down his shirt, suddenly aware of how disheveled he must look. When Dick asked him if he was alright, he nodded, despite the butterflies in his stomach. But those didn’t matter. For the first time in a long time, he felt that maybe he could be alright, and maybe this feeling could be permanent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....hehehehehehe
> 
> See you all in a bit! I 100% promise this fic is not abandoned and that I would never ever do that to you guys. And hey! At least I didn’t end on a cliffhanger this time :)


	17. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I'd come back! Please enjoy a very belated chapter. I hope it's as much fun for you as it was for me. I've missed writing fic. 
> 
> This chapter and all chapters are dedicated to [Balloonacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balloonacy/profile), who drew literally perfect art for Red Is Also A Color. Balloonacy, I love you and can't thank you enough!!
> 
> _Warnings: graphic violence, mentions of torture, discussion of drugs_

He didn’t mean to punch Dick in the face. It just sort of happened. 

One second they were sparring in the courtyard—sweat dripping in his eyes, the sun shining on his back—and Dick said something. “I’m hardly breaking a sweat,” Jason thought he said. And then he saw Cade, and the penthouse gym, and in the drumming of his heart he lost a few seconds. There was a shallow  _ crunch _ . When Jason came to, Dick’s escrima sticks were on the ground and his hands were prodding at his face.

“Shit,” Jason hissed, dropping his training knife. He rushed forward, as if to catch Dick, even though Dick wasn’t falling. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

Dick held up one of his hands. The other clutched his nose. “Shit,” he swore, his mouth grinning even as his eyes watered. 

Something hard worked its way up Jason’s throat. Stupid Dick. In many ways it was his fault; he shouldn’t have gone off-script when they were sparring, let alone rehearsing his death. They have the same fighting instincts, right? He should have known that Jason would—no. The fault was Jason’s. He reacted poorly: making excuses, even in the privacy of his own mind, would do him nothing.

“Let me see,” he said quietly. The moment he pulled Dick’s hand away from his face, a small stream of blood poured over his lips.  _ Fuck.  _

“Shit,” Dick hissed. Blood dripped between his parted lips. “Shit. Fuck.”

“I shouldn’t have punched you.”

“Wa’ch your fuckin’ punches, Shay.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Jason realized he was still holding on to Dick’s hand. He let go quickly, then stepped away, his face growing hot. “It’s not broken,” he muttered.

“Good. I’d hate t’ haff  _ you  _ ruin my pretty face.”

“A broken nose doesn’t ruin your face,” Jason said, avoiding Dick’s gaze. He picked up his training knife and ran a finger along the dulled edge. Somewhere in his memory, he could see Sears’ fist swinging toward him, the bright crack of lightning before his eyes. That was what, almost six years ago? It felt like more. “I’ve broken my nose lots. Could probably set it myself, if I had to.”

“Huh.” 

He flipped the knife over in his hand. “It’ll stop bleeding eventually.”

“Damn, buddy.” Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. The blood was a rich red against his bronze skin. “You’re acting like no one’s hi’ me in the nose before.”

Jason scowled and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Well, maybe I’m—” He paused to kick a stone across the courtyard. Why was it so hard to talk? “Whatever. Forget it.”

“Forget wha’?”

“You sound like a brat.”

“And you _ still  _ sound like an ass,” Dick replied, letting go of his nose. A tiny rivulet of blood dripped, dripped, stopped. “Am I still bleeding?”

Jason stared at the dirt. “No.”

“Am I covered in blood?”

“Yes.”

There was a loud sigh, then the rustling of fabric. When Jason looked again, his heart tripped inside him. God damn it. Of course Dick thought that his shirt was a good tool to clean up blood.  _ Idiot _ , he thought, trying not to look at his toned shoulders, the fine ridge of muscles along his abdomen. Even with the dirt and the blood and the sweat and the scars, he was frustratingly handsome. Like the gods themselves had sculpted him from clay—no, marble—and sent him down to worsen Jason’s mood. It didn’t help that his scars were light and delicate. Scratches, really. Jason knew that the ones on his chest were heavy and jagged like fissures in stone. The wounds on his chest and leg, though scabbed over, would soon be two more flaws on the tapestry of his skin. 

“What is this?” he forced out. “Shirts versus skins?”

Dick shrugged.  _ Fuck _ , the way his muscles shifted. “If you want it to be.”

“I don’t care.”

“Alright then.” Dick tossed his shirt to the side and grinned. His blue eyes were gems beneath the afternoon sun. “Stab me again?”

Jason grunted and took his position. Squared shoulders. Left foot back. Right leg bent at the knee. They’d been doing this for what—four hours now? Four hours a day over two weeks comes out to a lot of stabbing. A lot of punching. 

Well. Then again, an amateur practices until he gets it right. A professional practices until he cannot get it wrong.

“Great,” Dick said. He picked his escrima sticks from the ground, and without warning lunged at Jason. 

The plan was fairly simple: 

They fight for two minutes. Real, actual fighting, where fists and weapons strike skin, where bruises form and knuckles swell. Then, when they are ready, Nightwing misses a blow, swinging wide to the left. Jason catches his arm, breaks the wrist—or pretends to—and in the moment of Nightwing’s shock, slides a knife between his ribs. If all goes well, he would be tossing the vigilante’s limp body from a rooftop. Or a shipping container. Or simply to the ground. The details on location had yet to be worked out. 

Dick swung an escrima stick at his head. Jason ducked and countered with the swipe of his knife, only to take a blow to the collar bone. He hissed but said nothing. That was what he deserved, for hurting Dick.

“You good?” Dick asked. His stance faltered.

“Fine.”

“That’s your hurt shoulder.”

Jason threw a punch, missed. “Just hit me!” 

Dick complied, but held back. Jason could tell. When he was fighting,  _ really  _ fighting, Dick’s brow furrowed and his upper lip peeled back. Here, his lips were a soft, pleasant line. His eyes were bright. 

_ Whatever,  _ Jason thought. They’d been at it far too long already. 

When Dick swung wide, Jason responded by rote. Catch, break, stab. Except he didn’t. The blunt tip of the knife hovered over Dick’s adam’s apple, shaking with the rest of Jason’s hand. Something stupid in him told him to  _ stab _ , to  _ maim  _ and  _ kill _ , and he blinked, shocked by the darkness in his head.

“This is new,” Dick said. With the tip of a finger, he pushed the blade away from his trachea. “You’ve got good self-control. Sometimes.”

A bead of sweat dripped into Jason’s eye, stinging. He blinked it away. “Really.”

“I’m not bleeding, am I?”

“You were.”

Dick touched his neck, and his fingers came back clean. “But not here.”

Jason huffed, turning the knife over in his hands. He started toward the bench where they kept their water, paying no attention to the sound of Dick following him. “What’s your point?” he asked.

“I don’t have a point.”

“Sure.” Grabbing the water, he drank deeply, focusing on the sharp chill that spread throughout his chest. Cold. He should focus on the cold, not on whatever was happening with Dick’s naked chest. What was _ wrong _with him today? “We’re done here, right?” he asked. 

“If you want.” 

“It’s fucking hot out,” he said, pointing at the sky. Across the courtyard, heat rose in waves from the ground. 

“To be fair, you’re wearing a lot of clothes.” 

Jason looked down. He had sweat through his shirt from his shoulders to his navel, and his pants clung tightly to his legs. No room for the skin to breathe. God, he was such a mess. “This is a normal amount of clothes,” he said. “Not everyone wants to fight half-naked.”

Dick threw him a pair of finger guns and a dopish smile. “Maybe they don’t know what they’re missing.”

“I like to feel safe, thanks.”

“Oh, come on.” Dick nudged him playfully. His skin was fire. “Cotton will hardly cushion a fist, let alone stop a bullet.” 

Again, Jason drank, staring at the ground. “That’s not what I meant,” he said softly. Thoughts of East End rippled through his head. How many times did his clothes hug him when no one else would? How often were they the only thing standing between him and rough, wandering hands? Too many to count, that’s for sure. Dick would never understand.

There must have been a look on his face. Dick opened his mouth as if to say something, then clamped it shut, visibly turning something over in his head. “You want to talk about it?” he asked at last.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Okay.” 

“Fine.” Another bead of sweat rolled into his eye. He waited for Dick to say something stupid, and when nothing came, found himself wondering why. Maybe the Bats finally understood that he didn’t need therapy. No one knew how to deal with demons better than Jason. It was just life, at this point. “Look,” he said, “I’ll see you inside.” 

Dick let out a loud sigh. “Alright,” he said. He smiled, but gently. “Catch you around then.”

As he walked away, Jason pretended he didn’t want to look back at Dick, and when that didn’t work, he pretended it was for a normal reason. _ Did I leave something in the courtyard? Where did I put my water bottle? Did he call my name? _Except he left nothing behind, and Dick was just sitting. Nothing more.

In the bathroom he could almost consider his, Jason stepped out of his sweaty clothes and started the shower. The person in the mirror stared back at him, sweaty and dirty and covered in ugly marks. His neck was pink where the sun had burned into him. Great. 

The hot water stung. Jason hissed between his teeth and leaned against the shower wall, waiting it out even as he itched to finish up and put on clean clothes. God. When did he become so pathetic? Did working with the Bats really suck all the toughness out of him? Or maybe he was just—oh, he didn’t know—distracted or something. Yeah. That was it.

Groaning, he slid to the floor and folded into himself. He _ hurt. _ His whole body ached from the work of two weeks’ training. For a moment he considered touching himself, releasing tension by getting off, but then again he was afraid of where his mind might go. What would happen if he thought about—nope, he wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Getting off felt like a chore anyway. What was the point? Feeling like shit? Hating how fucked-up he was, that he had to be high or drunk to actually enjoy it? Maybe it could be alright with the right partner, but hell if he had ever found someone he actually wanted. Someone _ good. _Someone like—

God damn. This is exactly why he doesn’t like to linger in the shower. 

Jason finished quickly, taking only enough time to rinse the sweat from himself before drying off. The stone floor was freezing beneath his feet. Damn. All that money, and Bruce Wayne couldn’t install heated tiles. 

Still, he was grateful for the discomfort. It gave him something else to think about, something that wasn’t everything he had once hated.

He was hardly a foot outside his room when he nearly toppled over a smaller figure. Tim Drake, Robin. The teen looked so much younger without his mask, which made his piercing stare more humorous than anything else. It didn’t help that he looked like he was running on twenty minutes of sleep.

“What?” Jason asked.

“You’re done training already.” An observation, not a question.

“I’ve only been beating up Dick for four hours.” He rolled his eyes. “Give me a break.”

Tim pointed at a bruise on Jason’s arm. “Looks like he was the one doing the beating.” 

“Yeah, right. Keep dreaming, little bird. What do you want?” 

The teen stood silently, his lips pursed. At last he sighed. “Don’t make us regret this,” he said, and walked down the hallway. When Jason didn’t follow, he turned around and pulled a face. “Are you coming or not?”

Jason jogged over. “Jesus, man. Use your words next time.”

“That’s rich,” Tim said, smirking, “coming from you.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m sure you’ll recover.”

Jason grunted, but said nothing. No point arguing for argument’s sake. That’s something Roman’s Jason would do. Roman’s Jason _ loved _anger. Hell, he didn’t even know how to function without it. And maybe the real Jason didn’t know either, but at least he could try. 

Tim led him to the main study and paused in front of a large grandfather clock. “Dick trusts you,” he said.

“Okay.” 

“You can thank him for this.”

“For what? A clock?” Jason asked, but as the words left his mouth a suspicion washed over him. Hold on. They weren’t—were they? 

“You’re a smart guy,” Tim said. He found the hands of the clock and began to turn them forward. Five o’clock. Six. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Breathless, Jason nodded. “I think I have,” he muttered, just as the wall swung open. A dark stairway revealed itself to them. Blue light crept from a place he could not see.

Tim gestured for him to follow. “You don’t look too shocked,” he observed, watching Jason’s face.

“To be honest,” Jason said, stepping into the shadow. He blinked away everything but focus, let his face become a blank slate. “Everyone knows Batman has some secret hideout. It’s kind of a joke.” 

“Really.” 

“Yeah. He—Bruce—he doesn’t call this place the ‘Batshed’ or ‘Batcave’ or anything, does he?”

Tim didn’t say anything. That’s when Jason burst out laughing. 

“Oh my god. Holy fuck. He _ does? _God damn.”

“We’ve got a brand,” Tim said at last. 

“I’d say. Fuck,” Jason breathed, turning a corner only to see more stairs extended into darkness. Something began to stir inside him. He laughed again, if only to force it away. “Damn. How far down are we going?” 

Tim smirked. “Don’t worry. You can take the elevator back up.” 

Jason scoffed in reply. _ Take it yourself, tiny, _ he wanted to say, but then the stair opened up and he could not think of anything but what was before him. It was _ enormous. _That was what he noticed first. The size. Levels and levels of weapons, technology, a giant penny for some reason, and god knows what else. If he spoke, he was sure his voice would echo for centuries. 

“Well?” Tim said. 

All he could say was, “How the hell…?” _ How the hell did you build this? How the hell has no one found it? How the hell did you get all of this stuff? How the hell was I ever supposed to _ kill _ the man behind all of this? _

“Come on. We’ve got something to show you.” 

The item in question: a suit, resting on a model in a room filled with costumes. Jason didn’t doubt Tim—really, he didn’t—but he was still relieved to see that it was simple. Pants, top, body armor, boots. All black. Directly behind it, Robin’s stared back at him. God. Did Dick really wear that? He was so _small._

A new voice. Bruce. “What do you think?” 

Jason cleared his throat, then shrugged. “You’ve gotta be more specific than that,” he said. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. 

“‘Kay. Fine. Thank you.” He nodded at the suit. “It looks very practical.The lack of neon spandex is a nice touch.” 

“Figured you’d like that,” Tim said, tossing something at Jason. 

He turned it over in his hands. It was just a mask, not unlike the one Roman had him wear, though this one was lighter, and red. 

“I just couldn’t stay away from color,” Tim explained. “Dick said that red’s your favorite, so if you’ve got an issue with it, take it up with him, not me.” 

Jason traced his finger over the edge. Of course Dick was the kind of guy to remember someone’s favorite color. Of _ course _he was. “It’s fine,” he muttered. 

“The body armor is woven with kevlar thread and nanotubes,” Bruce said. “And there’s steel plating on the chest. Fully bulletproof.” 

The way he said it told Jason all that he needed to know. He hummed in reply, resisting the urge to scratch his chest. After a moment, he said, “Not the mask, though?”

“Carbon fiber.”

“Don’t get shot in the face,” said Tim.

“I’ll do my best,” Jason muttered. If Dick were here, he might have made a quip about ruining a handsome face. Stupid Dick. Where was he, anyway? 

Bruce motioned for Jason to follow him over to a device, a supercomputer by the looks of it. Jason had never seen one that large, or advanced. The sight would probably send Roman into a hissing fit. 

_ Fucking Bruce Wayne and his stupid gadgets, trying to make himself look important. He’s a piece of shit just like the rest of them. _

The thought settled like a rock in Jason’s gut. His fists clenched at his sides. _ I want him to suffer. _

“I assume you have a plan,” Bruce said. “You and my son.”

Jason shook away the feeling. “We’re practicing—”

“Not that kind of plan. How you’ll take down Black Mask’s empire.” He sent Jason an accusatory look. “Surely you won’t open by killing Dick.”

“No.” As Dick would put it, that’s more of an _ Act II _kind of trick, the raising of the stakes.

“I’ve watched you training. You’re strong.”

“Thank you?” 

Bruce waved him off, though a smile crept over his face. “Oracle tells me she’s tracked down one of the people working under Black Mask,” he said, sitting at the computer. On the screen, a hazy image of a man appeared by some club in the Narrows. “You’ve heard of a man named Cross?”

Jason nodded. Jared Cross, one of the gang leaders dealing with Roman’s shit. He’d met the man only a few times, at Roman’s _ business meetings_, but he’d never seen him at work. But there were stories. The jackass sold to kids, _ tricked _them into joining Gotham’s turf wars. 

Even the thought made his blood boil. 

“Word is,” Bruce began, “he’s expecting a shipment from Black Mask tonight. Do you think—” 

“—I can take it down, easy,” Jason said. 

“Jason.” It was not an accusation, or a warning. Bruce merely stared at him, his face begging for the truth. “I don’t doubt that you can. But I want to make sure that you won’t get hurt.”

_ Fucking Bats. _“My shoulder’s fine,” he said, rolling it around to emphasize the point. “I can run. Fight. And I’m not afraid of getting hurt, least of all by Roman’s cronies.” 

“The fear of injury can make you reckless.” 

Jason looked to Tim, who merely shrugged. _ This is what it’s like_, the teen seemed to say. _ Welcome to our life. _

Great.

“I don’t _ want _ to get hurt,” Jason snapped. “Not before Roman’s been dragged through the hell five times over.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, hands crossed over his chest. Some, but not all, of the concern had left his face. “Tell me what you’d do, if we let you go.” 

He scoffed. “If you _ let _me?”

“Jason.”

“Fine.” His hands tightened around the mask in his grip. “I’d secure the shipment, take down half his men—_ incapacitate_, not _ kill _ —and intimidate him into…” Into what? Jason had run it over several times in his head, though none of the answers yet made sense. Quitting? Turning his life around? Leaving Gotham? “…into turning on Roman. And I _ won’t _be reckless.” 

There. Vague enough.

Bruce studied him, then turned around to face his computer. _ Just respond! _Jason wanted to yell, but bit his tongue. 

The right choice. On the screen, a map of Gotham zoomed toward a small section of the Narrows, lighting the streets red. “The meeting is supposed to be here,” Bruce said. “O-two hundred. Dick will take you there, and will remain as backup in case it’s needed.”

Oh, great. Jason didn’t know if he was more annoyed that Bruce was assigning him a babysitter or that he’d have to spend more time with Dick. The less time he spent around Dick, the less he’d have to deal with...whatever shit was running through his head. 

Still, he nodded. His knuckles tightened again around the mask, squeezing until they were drained of blood. In his head, he saw himself and Dick standing over Gotham, Roman and everything he owned burning at their feet. A fantasy only, he knew, but still his heart leapt in his chest. 

Maybe he could do it. After all, this was only the beginning. 

♟♟♟

The Narrows were fucking freezing. Even beneath steel-reinforced body armor, Jason felt a chill run up his arms. _ Need a jacket, _he thought. 

“Ready?” Dick asked. He hung in the shadows behind Jason, wearing his Nightwing suit for the first time since he brought Jason to the manor. Then he smiled, and Jason didn’t need a jacket anymore. 

Jason grunted and kicked a rock over the warehouse roof. “For a group of drug dealers? I could kick their asses with a broken arm and a blindfold.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Dick leaned back against the edge of the roof and sighed, stretching back into the sky. His chest rose and fell gently. Fuck. Everything about him was just so—

_ Push him off, _said the voices in his head. 

He shoved them aside. _ Don’t push Dick over the edge. You don’t want to do that. _

“What?” Dick asked.

Jason didn’t realize he had been staring. His face burned; he stared at his feet. “You ever get worried you’re gonna fall off?” he asked.

“Would you be, if you were me?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Dick laughed, and something tightened in Jason’s gut. “Nothing, Jay,” he said, nudging him gently.

He scowled into the collar of his suit, ignoring the spot of skin that glowed with Dick’s touch. Something in his gut begged him to be friendly, to say something nice and build a genuine relationship that wasn’t dependent on the pity of people too good for Gotham. But nothing came. The words hardened in his throat no matter how much he tried to force them out. 

_ This isn’t what I was taught I don’t know what to do why is he still smiling fuck I should just say something say something say something say something SAY SOMETHING. _

The smile fell from Dick’s face. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered, and in an instant his mask was on and he was back in shadow. Sure enough, a nondescript moving truck pulled into the alleyway below. Five armed men jumped from the cabin and began unloading small boxes. Opioids, by the looks of them.

Fuck if Jason couldn’t go for a xanax right about now.

Dick’s voice crackled into his ear. “Com working?” 

“Working,” Jason whispered back. 

“Weapons?” 

He patted the knife to his thigh. There was the belt too, with shit like tasers and line launchers and all sorts of things that could sting, burn, slice, bruise, save. Tim had listed them off, but Jason wasn’t really listening. He only needed the knife.

From the shadows, Dick smiled. There was something off about the expression, something less animated. _ Call if you need me, _he mouthed, and in a blink he was gone. 

Sighing, Jason slipped the mask over his face. He swung one leg over the roof, then the other, gripping the building until the bricks bit into his gloves. Inhale, exhale. Just like old times. 

He jumped. 

The men on the ground didn’t notice him, not until he slipped behind one and took him out with a kick to the knee, an elbow to the nose. His body landed with a _ thud _; his cargo landed with the crack of thunder. 

All eyes turned on him.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll be taking over from here.” 

There was a moment of silence. Then one of them hissed—“_ A cape! _”—and four guns were pointed at his skull.. What fun.

He dove to the ground just as gunfire echoed throughout the alley. Drop. Roll. Stand. Strike. Duck. His heart pounded in his ears; he tasted dust. Strike. Kick. Break. From behind came a dull sound, like a rock hitting a sack of flour. Someone grunted and fell; his gun clattered to the ground. Blood pooled through his shirt. 

_ Stray bullet, _Jason thought. A Bat would stop to help, slow the bleeding, call an ambulance. But he was not a Bat. He kept fighting.

The remaining three men, one bloodied by Jason’s fist, fired erratically. Four, five, six shots. The chambers clicked empty, and Jason had hardly moved. _ Pathetic. _If only Roman knew his empire was built on such a shoddy foundation. 

_ I heard gunfire, _ said Dick’s voice in his ear. _ You good? _

“Gotta do better than that,” Jason said, grinning wickedly beneath his mask. God, how he _ missed _the scent of a fight. Salt, dust, and asphalt. Beautiful. 

The flash of fists, and it was over. Five men on the ground: four unconscious, one bleeding out—no, dead. Definitely dead. His eyes betrayed no emotion.

Jason knew that he should feel for the man, that the guy could have just been someone forced by life into the wrong corner. Dick would have been sorry. But he wasn’t Dick. Like the dead man, he didn’t feel a thing. All he knew was the rush of adrenaline, the heat of sweat in his ears.

Ten minutes to the meeting. It was time to move.

One by one, Jason grabbed the four living men and threw them into the back of the truck with the drugs. There was a groan; he slammed the offender’s head into the aluminum walls. Once, twice. No more groans. 

He paused over the dead man’s body. Ideally, this should be hidden too. No giveaways, not until Cross had shown all his cards. But after that…a prop could be useful. 

Before he could stop to think about it, Jason unsheathed the knife and drew it across the man’s throat. There was no spurting blood, but the wound did bleed. Brutal. It had to look brutal. One quick slice, and the man lost three fingers. Better. Those went in the truck too. 

Sighing, Jason tugged the rear doors closed, closed the padlock, and tucked the key into the padlock. The doors held steady. No one was breaking out. 

Part one, check. Begin part two. 

A car rumbled in the distance. “Shit,” Jason breathed. Quickly, he scooped the dead man into his arms and backed into shadow. The car grew closer. Two cars. Beneath his feet, the dirt rumbled. Then, nothing.

The slamming of a car door shook the silence. “The fuck are they?” someone mumbled. Jason assumed it was Cross. He had that grating voice of all of Roman’s doormats. 

“Truck’s here,” someone else said.

A third voice: “It’s not a set-up, is it?” 

“Nah.” Cross’ voice again. “Either they’re takin’ a piss or they’re just stupid as fuck. Gregson, check the truck.” 

Someone scuffled over to the doors. There was the creek of metal—Jason held his breath—but the doors did not open. Footsteps wandered to the front of the truck. From his position, Jason could see a figure peering through the driver’s side window. 

“Nothing,” the figure said. It was a new voice this time. Figures. No way anyone under Roman would meet five men with less. Jason had seen what happened to men who failed to meet quotas. Brands, pulled teeth, acid-soaked limbs, eyes pierced with needles. _ Remember this, Little Wolf, _ Roman said. _ Remember what happens to those who fail me. _

His chest began to itch. Yeah. No way did Roman mean to kill him with that bullet. 

“Fuck,” Cross hissed. “Where the hell are those bastards?” 

This was taking too long. Jason took a long breath. Exhaled. Then he stepped out, dragging the dead man in his wake. 

“You were looking for someone?” he asked, dropping the body. It landed with a thud on the ground. 

Their guns were raised immediately. Five, six, seven of them. Jason regarded them coolly, wondering how many more would fall to stray bullets. Two, probably. Three, if they were as stupid as they looked.

“Hands up,” one man snarled. Cross. Ugly prick wore a suit to a deal. Fuckhead.

Jason lifted his arms above his head. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if I wanted to kill you, I would.” 

“What is he, a Bat?” asked one of the men. 

“Doesn’t have a signal,” said another.

_ Ha! _Jason lowered his arms, noting which fingers flinched on their triggers, which faces betrayed a flash of confusion. “Look. You could walk out of here, or you could leave like Buddy here.” He prodded the body with the toe of his boot. “I just want to make a deal. You can even keep the merch.” 

Cross raised an eyebrow. “A deal.”

“Cut all ties with Black Mask.”

“Right,” Cross laughed, nodding at his men. “Kill him.”

More of the same. Jason grabbed the arm of the nearest man, breaking the wrist with a quick downward strike. The man cried out, then once more when Jason drew his knife across the back of his knee. His gun clattered to the ground. Nice. 

Jason pulled off three non-fatal shots before something hard struck his body armor. A bullet. The blow stung but did not knock him over. Another bounced off the armor on his thigh. He dropped to the ground. “Damn,” he hissed between his teeth. That would bruise.

Strong arms wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze. Taser. Where was—there. With a grunt, he drove the points into the man’s neck and hit the switch. A loud buzzing rippled through the alley. The man didn’t even make a sound as he fell. Five down. Two to go. 

Another bullet hit him in the chest. Two more. _ Christ, _ he thought, slamming his fist into someone’s face. The nose crunched beneath his knuckles. _ Aim for the head, idiots. _

Only Cross left. The dealer at least had the sense to save his bullets. Too bad he was a slow motherfucker. Before he could even take aim, his gun was in Jason’s hands and his forearm was nearly snapped in two. A bone protruded from the fine fabric of his suit. 

“Fuck!” Cross screamed, cradling his broken arm. “Who the fuck—”

Jason shot him in the thigh. “I’m doing the talking,” he said. “Understand?”

Cross’ glare could start a forest fire. But he did not speak.

“Here’s the deal,” Jason said. “You stop working for Roman. You—” _ You what? _His mind raced for the right answer, searching, searching… Then it clicked. 

_ I’m the perfect candidate. _

Flicking off his com, Jason fixed his eyes on the dealer. “You work for me instead,” he finished. 

Cross snorted. “Why should I—”

Jason cocked the gun, but held his trigger finger steady. “I’ll tell you why,” he said softly, and pulled the mask from his face. Cross’ eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition. “You and I both know what Roman does to failures like you. I’ll keep him _ and _the Bats off your back.” 

“How?”

“Same way I keep them off mine.” With the flick of his wrist, he removed the gun’s chamber and tossed the weapon to Cross’ feet. “Or you could just fuck off back to Roman,” he said. “I’m sure he’d be _ real happy _ to hear you lost your profit to a _ fucking failure _like me.” Jason grinned. “What do you think he’ll take? Your tongue or your cock? Both?”

Cross said nothing.

“Do business as usual,” Jason continued. “Turn a profit. What does Roman take—thirty percent? Hell. I’ll take twenty. Do we have a deal?”

“I—”

Jason grabbed his broken arm and squeezed until the screams pierced his ears. “Do. We. Have. A. Deal?”

“Yes! God, yes! Fuck!” Cross cried. 

Releasing him, Jason walked to the truck and unlocked the doors. Everyone was right where he left them. “You,” he said, pointing at one of Cross’ more functional men. “Load your boss into his car. And you—” Another man. “Help me stuff the rest of these bastards in the back.” 

Both did as he asked. Huh. Maybe they were smarter than they looked.

The back of the truck was a pile of bloodied, unconscious men. At least, Jason hoped they were just unconscious. They should be. No sliced arteries, no head injuries worse than a concussion. The pile of vomit was proof enough for that.

“What about the pills?” Cross asked. His crony held him up. They held each other up. 

“Mmmm. You lost that privilege when you attacked me.”

“And my men?” 

“Dunno,” Jason mused. “Maybe I’ll take their heads.”

Cross grumbled but did not protest. The coward shuffled back to his vehicle, a thin stream of blood trailing behind him. For a moment Jason did nothing but watch and imagine putting a bullet through his skull. Bastard certainly deserved it, after—

“One more thing,” Jason said. They stopped, their backs straight with tension. “Sell to kids, and I’ll rip out your femurs and shove them down your throats. Then I’ll ship you off to Roman. Got it?”

The look in Cross’ eyes said it all. 

Car doors creaked open. Slammed shut. Jason watched them pull away, staring down the windshield even though he could not see their faces. The moment he could no longer hear the rumble of an engine, he let himself fall to the ground.

Fuck. He hurt more than he thought he did. Like he’d been run over by a stampede.

Turning on his com, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m here, Wing,” he said into the device. “It’s over.”

Dick’s response was immediate. _ Oh god, Red. Be right there. _

Sighing, Jason looked over at the dead man still on the asphalt. His throat gaped open in a bloody gash. _ Shit. _That would be hard to explain away. 

He had just finished putting the man in the truck when he felt Dick’s presence behind him. 

“J—Red,” Dick said, rushing toward. His body flinched as if to hug Jason, but his arms remained pressed against his sides. “Your com cut out. I thought—you’re hurt.”

Jason touched his face. His gloves came back slick with blood. “I don’t think it’s mine,” he said. 

“Then who—” Dick shook his head, his face softening. Reaching out, he grabbed Jason’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have gone there. I just...your com cut out.” 

“S’fine. I’m fine,” Jason muttered, ignoring the searing heat of the other man’s hand. “The rest are, um, well, they’re in the truck.” 

“What about the drugs?” 

“The truck.” 

Dick whistled. “Damn. You really did all that?”

“Yup.” He forced himself to look into Dick’s eyes. “And _ you _ thought I died.”

“Well, maybe not _ dead. _”

“Please. I saw the look on your face. You were fucking _ anguished_.”

“Me? Over you?” Dick feigned astonishment. “You're an asshole. I _ loathe _you.” 

“Well.” Jason smiled, grateful that the darkness hid his burning face. “I loathe you too, so…” 

“So we’re on the same page.”

“Yeah. The same page.”

Dick’s face broke into a grin. “Great. I’ll have Oracle alert the commissioner. Seems like we have some cargo he’ll be interested in.” He sauntered off to the truck, speaking into his com. 

Jason watched, aching in a way he had not been before. Fuck if he knew why. All he could think about was _ loathing_. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t know what he meant. But he hoped that Dick meant the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time, lovely readers. Please join me [on Discord](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP) if you want to chat!


	18. Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got one more month before my thesis is due, so I figured I'd take a quick break and have some fun. I hope you all are staying safe out there. Protect yourselves and the world by staying inside and reading/writing fanfic. 
> 
> [Now with art by Reggie2Hood!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377389/chapters/58359061) Thanks a million, dude.
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** Blood, graphic violence, Jason's feelings

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It was supposed to be easy. 

He was supposed to _ win. _

How many raids had he run at this point? Ten? Eleven? Jason didn’t even know how much he was pulling in per week. Actually, that’s not true. Forty-five grand per week. Forty-five _ grand _ per week. He had eight—well, seven, apparently—gang leaders under his “protection.” He was a fucking _ crime lord. _

And he should have been better than this. 

The heavy _ pop _of automatic weaponry echoed throughout the club. Several bullets chipped the bricks five feet from his head. Flakes of stone scattered through the air. Jason squeezed his eyes shut. 

“The fuck is he?” someone shouted. 

He recognized that voice: the heavy man who took Jason’s knife in the thigh. That man was the first to shoot, which wouldn’t have been anything special—lots of people had been the first to shoot—except his shot was like some kind of gangster dinner bell. Now there were more of them. Easily, twenty, twenty-five. All crowded in a shitty underground club with more lasers and lights than a fucking _ Star Trek _episode. Two levels: a dance floor, and the upper rafters. Shitty music was still blasting from the speakers, and the shitty smoke effects were pouring down Jason’s throat, and all he had was a knife and a malfunctioning com.

Dick’s voice filtered into his ear. “Re--you—r me?” 

_ God damn underground clubs. _Another thing he should have known. Jason used to frequent clubs like these, back on nights when Roman didn’t have him...doing things. He’d get drunk and high and grind against sweaty bodies until he couldn’t remember what he wanted, only that other people wanted him. That was the real high, in the end. 

More gunfire. He hissed between his teeth. “Fuck.”

“Cutti—out—you—afe?”

_ Get yourself together. _“Fine,” he muttered, gripping the knife until his knuckles were pale as bone. “Give me a moment.” 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Quick as shadow Jason slipped from his hiding place behind the bar and moved toward the next closest source of cover: sound equipment bigger than a full-sized dining table. The run was more for observation than anything else. He needed to know how many of them were out there, where they were, and how he could possibly take them down.

There were twenty-two of them. All were armed; five had AK-47s. One near the back was carrying the suitcase full of cash that Jason _ thought _he was here to collect. Hell. There was no money. That suitcase was probably filled with rocks. 

As for where they were: all over. Two women with pistols were positioned by the back door. Three men with shotguns covered the secondary exit in the upper rafters. The rest were roaming, some close enough for him to throw a knife into. One flick of the wrist, and boom. Carotid artery severed. 

(No killing, remember?)

Jason sighed silently, squeezing his eyes shut. He _ could _ take down one of the people guarding the doors, slip through before anyone noticed anything. But that wouldn’t work. Then Mr. Boss Man—Caesar De Marco—would march right back to Roman and tell him just what a pussy Jason is. It wouldn’t matter if he killed Nightwing—everyone would know that a few heavy guns would send him running with his tail between his legs.

Or maybe he could just take down De Marco. Squash the nest, scatter the roaches. That way, both he and Roman would lose. It’s not like it would be hard. Just slip unnoticed through the ten people guarding him, snatch the phone from his ear, shove it down his throat, and snap his—

Nope. No killing. God damn it. 

“—ason?” Nightwing asked. “—I can’t—signal—oming—tch out.”

_ God damn it. _“I’m fine, Wing,” Jason muttered, more for his own benefit than anything else. 

New plan. New plan. He had to come up with a new plan. Which would be…

From the middle of the dance floor, someone started yelling. A different voice. All sorts of _ lovely _stuff. “Get out here, you fucking bitch!” and “I’m not fucking scared of you!” and “You’re just a cock-sucking whore!”

Real original.

Jason leaned back against the sound equipment. Over the boom of the speakers, he could hear even more gunfire. Jesus. Whoever was in charge of the automatic needed a serious talking to about gun safety. 

The person kept yelling. De Marco, Jason assumed. Only a guy with protection would have the guts to gloat. Random Grunt #14 would never. 

“Not so strong in a real fight, huh?” De Marco shouted.

“Says the guy with ten bodyguards,” Jason mumbled into his collar. After three weeks of work, it was starting to smell like sweat. Like him. 

“It’ll be easier if you come out.”

There was a pause. Someone was walking toward the sound equipment—Jason could hear their footsteps, their hitching breath. Anxious. A small smile crept over his lips. So the foot soldiers were a little scared of him after all. 

Then De Marco spoke again, and Jason’s organs dropped to the floor. 

“He’s coming for you, you know.”

Shock rooted him in place. _ No, _ Jason thought, and he could not stop. _ No. No. No. No. _The walls of the club seemed to press in on him; he could not breathe. Even if he tried, he was sure he would start gasping, and whoever was coming would put a bullet in his brain. No, not his brain. His legs, his arms. Nothing that would kill him, because Roman wanted him alive, because he always wanted traitors alive, so that he could skin them and whip them and break needles beneath their fingernails—

_ And then he’ll come for Dick. _

Because of course Dick was heading this way. He was a goddamn fucking Bat, and the Bats are heroic to the point of stupidity. They can’t just let the new guy get taken; they have to _ help _ and get taken too. And then Roman will be hurting Dick, and Jason wouldn’t be able to—he would want to die, then. Because if anyone deserved to be hurt, it was Jason. Not Dick.

(Jason, who _ chose _ to be Roman’s dog. Jason, who _ killed _people. Jason, who didn’t have his own identity until a month ago.) 

“Oh, god,” he breathed, then slapped his free hand over the mask. 

_ No sound. Don’t make a sound. Don’t panic. Panic will kill you. Kill both of you. _

Breathe in, breathe out. 

The footsteps grew closer. They were right on top of him now. Breathe in. Stand. Punch throat. Sleeper hold. Catch gun before it falls. Lower both to the floor. Breathe out.

Jason exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension in his body with the air in his lungs. He waited one second, two seconds, for someone to notice that one of theirs had just disappeared. Nothing. 

_ He’s coming for you. _

His hands went to his belt. Quickly he traced his fingers over the devices, taser, line launcher, lock pick. _ Come on, _he thought. There had to be something. There had to be—

There.

Holding the spherical capsule between his fingers, Jason squeezed until he heard a pop. Then, quickly, he turned and hurled it onto the dance floor. 

The darkness came swiftly. At once half the dance floor was shrouded in thick, billowing smoke, followed by a sour chemical smell. But it was not enough. 

Another capsule. Another pop. Coughs sounded from the building around him, followed by angry cries and vulgar threats. 

“Fucking prick!” De Marco’s voice. “Jesus fuck—block the fucking exits!”

Jason stood, and ran. The smoke stung his eyes, but his breaths were cool and clear. They must have added a filtration system to the mask. Even when he gasped for air, it felt like he was in the middle of some east coast forest and not a gross hole filled with cement and bricks and dried sweat. 

His arms and legs pumped back and forth as he charged through the smoke, trying to remember the path to the nearest exit. Left, no right. Past the steel beams, right into—

Something stepped in front of him. Jason didn’t even have time to slow. There was the impact. The shake in his bones. A grunt. And they both fell to the floor. 

“Shit,” the figure gasped. A woman, by the sound of it. She coughed, squinted. 

_ Move, _he thought, but it was too late.

The cocking of a gun. “Over here!” she shouted, and fired. 

Jason felt the bullet hit his body armor, but the shock was nothing compared to the sound. _ Fuck. _A sharp ringing filled his ears; he could hardly make sense of anything else. Maybe someone was shouting in the distance, or maybe it was the woman, right in front of him. All he could hear was the high-pitched whine. 

“Come on,” he muttered, or thought he muttered. Something hit him in the thigh. Another bullet. The force of it nearly knocked him back. That would bruise, for sure.

_ He’s coming for you. _

Without a sound, Jason righted himself, and charged forward, catching the woman around the waist. This time the fall left her limp on the ground. He did not stop to check for breath. _ Run. _

Left, right. Duck beneath a beam. Run.The smoke had started to clear; he could see the outlines of bricks to his left. _ Shit, _he thought, and ran faster.

There. The door. And just beyond, the hallway that would get him out of here.

So what if De Marco didn’t pay for turning on him. Jason still escaped, didn’t he? He was still the guy who couldn’t be trapped. Who couldn’t be outsmarted. Whatever reputation he’d built would stay intact. 

Twenty more feet. De Marco was still shouting behind him. Someone fired a gun, once, twice.

Fifteen feet.

More gunfire. His hearing was returning. 

Ten. 

He could make out the music again. Footsteps.

So close. Jason reached for the handle. His fingers closed around the metal and—-

A thud. The crest of his cheek stung, then burned. When Jason looked, he saw the starburst impact of a bullet in the door. Something dripped from his jaw. Blood.

“One more step, and the next one’s going in your skull.”

Jason’s heart leapt into his throat. Not Roman. De Marco.

_ Panic will kill you. _

“You missed,” he said, raising his hands over his head as he turned around. De Marco stared back, his grin wide and _ begging _to be punched. 

“Who said I missed?” he replied dryly.

“I did.” 

Silence. The gangster didn’t move.

“You’re making a mistake.”

De Marco took a step forward. For a second, Jason wondered what would happen if he just ran. But he couldn’t be a coward. He was supposed to be brutal. Roman’s most dangerous ex-weapon. 

“I know who to play for,” De Marco said, casually drawing a pair of cuffs from his belt. 

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Maybe your daddy offered me money. Said he’d pay real good if I held you for him.” 

_ Daddy. _Nausea rose in Jason’s throat. “Roman doesn’t want to fight his own battles anymore, huh?” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. 

De Marco chuckled. “You talk a lot of shit for a guy in a corner. Hands out.”

_ Think, damn it _. Nothing came. Jason offered his wrists, putting all his energy into keeping a neutral face. There was still time to get out of this. Still time to break free before Dick tried to rescue him and got hurt too. 

The cuffs snapped over his wrist, whirring as the electronic lock fastened into place. “I told Black Mask I wanted a chance at you,” De Marco said. “It’s only fair, after all. You took out my lieutenant and seven men last week.”

“Maybe I did you a favor,” Jason replied.

“Shut up.”

“Just saying. They didn’t put up much of a fight.” 

“I said, _ shut up,” _ De Marco hissed, striking Jason across the face. 

The pain was only momentary, but it was sharp. Jason tasted blood. He had bitten through the tip of his tongue. 

Taking long, steady breaths, he forced his eyes to stay fixed on the mercenary’s face. He still had one card left to play. Like the saying goes: if it ain't broke, don’t fix it. 

(Don’t think about the fact that maybe it is broken, a little.)

“This is your last chance,” he said. 

De Marco laughed. “Ooh. I’m scared.”

“You’re afraid of Roman? Wait ‘till you see what I do to you.” 

“Big words for a little street rat. You suck cock with that mouth?”

Jason bit back fury. “I’m warning you, De Marco.”

In response, the gangster shoved him toward the door. Jason stumbled, but caught himself before he looked like an idiot. _ Fuck. Fuck! _

“Your warnings mean shit,” De Marco said. 

_ Fuck! _

“You’ll regret this,” Jason tried. His voice was beginning to crack; he was sure his face was too. His cheek burned where the bullet had nicked the skin.

De Marco turned to one of his men. “Taser,” he ordered, sticking out his hand. “Looks like the boy could use a little discipline before daddy gets here.”

_ No! _ screamed the voices in his head. _ No! No! Not like this! _

And then Dick’s voice, clear as glass: “I’m coming down, Red. Where are you?”

Jason froze. 

_ Panic will kill us. _

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

A hundred thoughts raced through his head, beginning with _ don’t let Dick do something stupid _ and ending with _ we’re stronger together. _And they were stronger together; it was a fact. The two of them could fix this. Hell, as much as Jason hated to admit it, Dick could fix it on his own. He could do anything. Boy Wonder, indeed.

“Who knew that _ De Marco _ needed a taser to hurt people,” Jason said slowly, feeling out the syllables on his tongue. “Do your fists not work? Can’t look weak in front of your second-rate _ gangsters, _can you?” 

A moment. 

Dick’s voice: “Understood. Coming.”

“Careful,” hissed De Marco. Taser in hand, he brought the twin tips to Jason’s jugular. “My orders were to hold you alive. Not necessarily in one piece.”

“Except you won’t do shit. We all know Roman likes to keep his men on a tight leash.” Jason looked at the men behind the gangster’s shoulder. “Even if they act all tough, they’re nothing more than sheep.”

There was a sound like crackling thunder. Jason’s whole body seized, writhing in agony from the concentrated pain at his neck. There was the smell of burning flesh. And then it was over. Somewhere in the distance, he was aware of De Marco laughing. 

“Get a loud of Mr. Tough Guy,” he said. He spoke so loudly and with such force that it took Jason a moment to orient himself. “You’d think you’d need more than a taser to take him out.”

“I’m fine,” Jason breathed into his com.

De Marco turned his eyes to him. “What was that?”

“I said, fuck you.”

The tips of the taser licked his skin. It was a reminder, if nothing else. “You want this somewhere else?” the gangster asked. 

Jason forced himself to laugh. “I don’t think you’re creative enough for that.”

“Try me.”

“Jesus. You sound like you came straight out of a—”

His words were cut off by the sound of someone shouting, then the distinct thud of a body hitting the floor. _ Dick, _he thought, and there the vigilante stood: half-shrouded in smoke, with that stupid smile on his face. 

De Marco only had the time to say, “What the fuck?” 

It was the last thing Jason heard before all hell broke loose.

Gunfire. Shouting. Flashing lights. Something pushed him forward; he felt the hard wood of the door slamming into his back, then nothing as the door swung open. He fell. The lights burned in his vision.

“Stay,” a gruff voice whispered. 

_ No. _ With a snarl, Jason launched himself toward the gangster, driving his shoulder into his waist. Something struck the back of his head. His thigh. The pains hardly bothered him. He was too wrapped up in a single thought: _ into the fray. _

De Marco was strong. Surprisingly strong. No matter how hard Jason pushed, he held his ground, keeping them a good twenty, thirty feet from the rest of the fight. Just beyond, Dick was swinging from the upper rafters of the club, tossing explosive pellets toward the gangsters on the ground. The flash would have hurt, if Jason’s face wasn’t buried in the gangster’s suit.

_ Into the fray. Get him off me. _

_ Use his own strength against him. _

Gritting his teeth, Jason dug his heels into the ground and shoved his body into the form in front of him, waiting until the form pushed back. Hold. Hold. Release.

He dove to one side. Behind him, De Marco hit the ground. 

_ Run. _

A bullet caught the back of his thigh. He knew from the precision that it was De Marco shooting at him, but he did not stop to look. All his energy went into dodging bodies, equipment, bullets. Without the use of his hands…

The cuffs. He had to get them off.

A wingding caught one of the gangsters in the arm. He stumbled into Jason’s path—the sound of a gun roared throughout the room—and his head exploded in a cloud of red mist and viscera. Jason tasted blood; he spat it to the ground. God damn gangsters and their aiming skills. 

To his left, a bullet ripped through a woman’s chest. To his right, a man shouted, and then his jaw was gone. _ Jesus Christ, _ Jason thought, catching a glimpse of blue and black in his peripherals. _ The whole lot of them needs a safety briefing. _

Dick’s voice: “I’ve got this. Kill De Marco.”

_ That can’t be right. _“What?” Jason hissed.

“I’ll stop you. Then, you know.”

Someone swung at Jason. He ducked, kicked. His heel struck the man’s jaw; the man dropped like rocks in a river. 

“Here?”

“Why not?”

“Fine,” Jason replied, swinging his cuffed fists into the face of the closest man. _ Got to get these off _ , he thought, or tried to think. The room was filled with noise, with lights. And if he weren’t wearing his mask, he was sure it would be filled with the heavy scent of sweat and blood too. His thoughts came in fragments— _ cuffs, Dick, De Marco, kill _—and he didn’t realize that someone had caught up to him until he felt the body slamming him into the wall. 

The breath left his lungs.

“You’re going nowhere,” the man hissed. His forearm dug into Jason’s throat, cutting off the air supply. Stars sparkled before his eyes. “I finish what I start.”

Jason pushed against the man’s arms, thrashing and spitting even as his lungs burned. _ Don’t look weak. Not now. _Push. Growl. Claw. 

And then he was breathing again. The man was no longer in front of him, but to one side, fighting off Dick’s escrima sticks as they flickered with electric sparks.

“I didn’t peg you guys for clubbers,” Dick was saying. His body twisted and leapt as they fought, an mesmerizing display of agility. Deadly and natural all at once. God damn him. “The more you know, I guess.”

_ Stop watching. Move. _

Across the floor, Jason caught De Marco climbing the stairs. Vantage point. Without thinking, he charged forward, only to lose his balance and fall, face-first, into the concrete. “Fuck,” he hissed, his eyes finding his bloodied knuckles and the cuffs not far beneath. The electric lock stared back at him.

Electric.

Climbing to his feet, Jason scoured the room. Fast. He had to move fast. Dodge attacks. Kick. Stun. Don’t think. Find the box on the wall, draw back your hands, and—

There was the crunch of metal. The scream of electric currents. Half the lights in the club shut down, leaving only a few, pulsing colors. His hands were shocked numb, but they were free. And now…

“_ You! _”

The sound of his voice surprised even Jason. It was deep, resonant. So angry it could start a fire. But there was no time to think about it. He charged toward De Marco, shrugging off the impact of bullets as if it were nothing. 

It happened quickly. One moment there were stairs and three men between him and the gangster, and then there was nothing. Jason’s fists ached from blows he could not remember. When he licked his lips, he tasted blood. 

“You,” he said again, stepping toward De Marco. “You lying piece of shit.”

De Marco, to his credit, did not cower. “I don’t take orders from brats.”

Jason’s hand shot forward and grabbed him around the throat, squeezing to the point of pain and fear, but not danger. Another thing Roman had taught him. “Do _ you _ see a brat?” he hissed. 

Behind him, the sound of a gun cocking into position. Jason whipped around with De Marco still in his hold, bringing the gangster between himself and the barrels of five guns. Somewhere on the first floor, Dick struggled with the rest of them. But the sound of their fight was hardly audible over the pounding of Jason’s heart in his ears.

“Tell them to drop their weapons,” he told De Marco. “_ Do it!” _

“Do—do as he says.” 

The sound of metal hitting concrete. And farther away, the clang of metal on metal. Jason’s heart leapt in his chest. _ God damn it, Dick. _

Reaching to his belt, he pulled out his knife and dragged the tip over De Marco’s neck, then up his cheek. “You want to know why I betrayed Roman?” he asked quietly. 

The gangster let out a sharp breath. Jason chuckled.

“I’ll tell you.” With the flick of his wrist, he drove the knife into the soft part of De Marco’s cheek. A scream ripped through his ears. But he kept going, pressing until he felt the hard surface of teeth meet metal. Then, quickly, the other cheek. As he withdrew the blade for the second time, Jason whispered, “_ I’m worse. _” 

“Jesus! Fuck!” De Marco cried, his words warbled by blood. 

“You see what happens when you sell me out?” Jason asked the people gathered in front of him. Before he even registered what he was doing, he grabbed De Marco’s hand and snapped his index finger, then middle, then ring. It was for emphasis, he supposed. And it wasn’t killing.

De Marco roared. His men flinched, but with their boss’ body between themselves and Jason, he knew there was little they could do. 

Now, the wrist. Another roar. Somewhere below them, he caught a flash of blue, then a spray of bullets. He could hear Dick’s laughter, and then he couldn’t anymore. 

_ Oh god. _

Jason forced himself to laugh despite the aching in his chest. “You piece of _ shit! _I should have known you’d squeal. Let’s see how high you can go, huh?”

“Fuck yo—-FUCK!” De Marco screamed once more as Jason started on the other hand, writhing like a snake in his grasp. 

“You’re gonna be lesson number one,” Jason said, releasing his broken hand. 

Now the gangster started trembling. “Please,” he spat out, blood dribbling from his mouth. “Please, don’t—”

Jason pressed his knife against De Marco’s throat. “Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.” 

“_ No!” _

There was a blue blur. Something slammed into his side, knocking him to the corrugated metal floor. _ Dick, _Jason thought. This was the beginning of the end. 

“I can’t let you kill him,” Dick—Nightwing—said. A nasty bruise stretched across the left side of his face. And judging from the bloody hole beside his collar bone, he had taken a small knife to the shoulder. It looked like he had gotten slashed across the thigh, too. 

_ Fuck. _

As he pushed himself to his feet, Jason found it in himself to growl. “This isn’t your fight, Big Wing.” 

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Jason took a defensive stance. “I’m gonna give you to the count of three,” he snapped. “One.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Two.”

“I’m warning you.”

He didn’t finish, choosing instead to tackle him into the railings of the rafters. It’s probably what Dick deserved, after he shoved him like that. Shit hurt. 

A fist flew toward his temple. Jason ducked, returned with an elbow to the jaw. Dick blocked it easily. 

Behind them, he could hear De Marco moaning. His men were picking up their weapons; Jason would recognize that sound anywhere. A warning pushed at his lips, and then the dark club was flooded with blinding, painful light. 

_ Fuck. _Dick threw a god damn flash bomb. 

In his moment of distraction, Jason felt an escrima stick catch him in the ribs. Pain shot up his left side. He grunted and lashed out at Dick, but he was already gone, kicking the gangsters’ guns over the edge of the catwalk. Jason had no choice but to follow. 

The harder he fought, the harder Dick fought back. Jason’s fist grazed his jaw. Dick’s foot missed his nose by mere inches. Punch. Duck. Swing. There was an almost-imperceptible glimmer behind Dick’s eyes, something that would have reassured Jason if it weren’t for the pain that rested beside it. Blood still oozed from Dick’s wounds. Not much, but enough to form a lump in Jason’s throat. _ He’s hurt. _

And then Dick missed. 

After weeks of practice, the moves came easy to Jason. He grabbed Dick’s wrist, drove the butt of his palm into Dick’s hand. The escrima stick fell to the catwalk, and rolled off the edge. Then, Jason squeezed Dick’s wrist, and yanked.

Dick was a good actor. For a second, Jason wondered if he had broken the bone. The vigilante twisted in agony as he cried out, and yet he still kept his face drawn in focus. He swung with his free arm; Jason caught that, too, and pinned him against a steel beam. 

“You’re not going to win,” Dick spat.

Jason could feel the eyes of the gangsters on his back. They wouldn’t see the blow, not at this angle. “It seems I already have.” 

“He’ll come for you.”

The handle of his knife was cool in his hands. “I don’t care,” Jason replied, and drove it forward. 

For the first time all night, the club was silent. 

Dick’s eyes widened. He clutched at Jason’s torso, gagging on something that wasn’t there—no, was there. _ He hid blood capsules in his mouth _, Jason realized, watching rivulets of dark red fluid fall from his lips. Nice touch. 

And then, the look in his eyes. The wordless order: _ toss me over the edge. _

Jason paused—

_ I can take it— _

And let go. 

Dick fell like a ragdoll. Ten, twenty feet. The sound of his body hitting the concrete made Jason’s organs lurch in a way he did not expect. It was pain, but not like the pain of his bullet-grazed cheek, or bruised knuckles. Something else entirely. 

_ You can’t stop now. _

Whispers, from the behind him: 

“_ He’s really fucking dead?” _

_ “Holy shit.” _

Quickly Jason sheathed his knife before De Marco and his men could notice the lack of blood. Then, looking toward De Marco and his men, he turned his face into something hard. “Anyone else want to fight?” he demanded. 

Wide eyes stared back at him. 

“I thought so.” A rough laugh escaped Jason’s lips as he stared over the edge of the railing. One story below, blood started spreading in a pool around Dick’s body. From his torso, from his head. He wanted to throw up. _ If he’s not faking it, _ Jason thought, _ I’m gonna kill him. _

“You two,” he said, pointing at the grunts holding up their bleeding, broken boss. “Drop him.”

Despite his injuries, De Marco puffed up in indignation. With a blood-clogged voice, he said, “Don’t you fucking—”

Too late. He hit the metal lattice, and groaned loudly. 

“Good.” Jason grinned wickedly. He walked forward, arms crossed over his chest. “I want my fucking money,” he said, placing the toe of his boot over De Marco’s knee. He drove his weight into his foot. A sick _ crack. _The gangster screamed. 

“You’ll have it!” he cried. “Just—”

Jason pressed down harder, and the man’s words turned into strangled cries. “Shhh shhh shhh. I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to _ my men.” _He looked toward the others gathered there. “Am I correct?” 

They glanced at De Marco, then at him. A chorus of “yes, sirs” bubbled from their mouths.

_ Yes, sir. _Roman really would be proud. 

Jason pointed at the biggest one, one of the two that had been holding De Marco. “You. What’s your name?”

“Jackson,” the man said. 

“Looks like you just got a promotion, _ Jackson. _”

Jackson said nothing. Before he could stop himself, Jason thought, _ What would Roman do? _The answer came easily: Roman would establish dominance.

He struck Jackson across the face. Not hard enough to knock the man down, but enough to stagger him. “I said,” Jason hissed. “You just got a promotion, _ Jackson. _”

“Thank you, sir,” the man said quickly. 

“I want the money, Jackson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Business as usual. But you pay _ me. _ And don’t deal to kids. If you do—” Jason grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and forced his face toward the dance floor. Dick lay in a bloodied, immobile heap. “You catch my drift, yeah?” 

“Yes, sir.”

He released Jackson. “Tell the others. All of you.”

“Tell them what?” someone asked.

Jason laughed bitterly. “What do you think?” he snarled, thrusting a finger toward Dick’s limp body. “Black Mask is a useless old man. He can’t do _ shit. _ You want protection from the fucking Bats? You work for _ me. _”

A pause. Jason’s heart hammered in his throat.

“Well?” he forced out. “_ Go. _Don’t make me ask again.”

And then they were gone. Jason glanced down at Dick, still unmoving, before turning his gaze back to De Marco. _ Fuck. _ It would make everything so much easier if he could just kill him. Maybe display his body in front of his former haunts, bruised and bloodied like he deserved. Cut of his hands, feet, tongue. Now _ that _ would be a threat. 

Blood dripped from the gangster’s mouth. He cradled both of his arms against his chest; his broken leg stuck out at an odd angle from the rest of his body. “Don’t,” he whimpered, as if he could hear Jason’s thoughts. “I’ll pay you. I’ll do anything.”

_ What would Roman do? _

Option A: Knock him out and leave him for the GCPD. But then again De Marco’s would likely pay his way out of trouble, out of prison, just like every other rich piece of shit in Gotham. What kind of example would that set?

Option B: Make the rest of his life a living hell. Torture. Maim. Make him wish he could die. Of course, if Jason messed him up more, cut off an arm, an ear, and if the Bats found out… Shit. Fucking hypocrites.

Option C it is.

Jason knelt by De Marco’s side. “Your phone,” he ordered.

“Front—front pocket.”

“Password.”

The gangster told him. Jason opened the list of recent calls and found Roman’s number. His heart had been racing before. Now it threatened to work itself into an explosion. _ Calm, _he told himself. Breathe in, breathe out.

Roman’s voice was low and even. “Make this worth my time,” he said.

“Hello, _ Sir.” _

A pause. Then, a reply. “Little Wolf. It’s been a while.”

Jason expected panic, a feeling of dread that left him feeling worthless. But there was nothing of the kind. Anger surged in his chest, hot, intense flames that drowned out anything but him, and the call. 

“De Marco failed,” Jason snarled. “Your plot failed.”

“_ My _ plot? Please. After your little run-in with Slade Wilson…” He paused, chuckling. “Or should I say, _ run over— _I decided to let you play your cards. This was all De Marco’s doing.”

Jason said nothing.

“I suppose he’s dead, then?”

“Actually, no,” Jason said, eyeing the broken man at his feet. “I’m leaving him for you. I’ve set my example. It’s only fair that you set yours.”

Roman laughed again. “So it’s a battle of reputation.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“I hope you’re prepared to lose, Little Wolf.” His voice was lower now, more dangerous. “And when I win, I’m going to make hell look like a _ fucking playground. _”

A moment. Jason breathed in, breathed out. “43 North 31st Street. Collect your trash before the cops get here,” he said, and hung up. 

De Marco stared. 

“Don’t look so shocked. This is what you wanted isn’t it?”

“I—”

He didn’t have time to finish before Jason grabbed him by the neck and pressed against his jugular veins. Hold. Five seconds. Ten seconds. De Marco’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he slipped into unconsciousness. 

Jason waited a moment. When De Marco did not stir, he ran. Across the catwalk, down the stairs. _ You better be okay, _ he wanted to hiss, but couldn’t _ , _ not when the groaning bodies around him still had ears. The anger he had felt for Roman started slipping into the cracks of his vessel. Going, going, gone. All that was left was a single word: _ please. _

Dick was not moving. Jason stood over him, eyes fixed on the pool of blood seeping out from beneath his head. Was it the fall? How hard did he hit his head. Oh, god. Was this his fault? 

He knelt down, placed a hand in front of Dick’s mouth. Waited. 

_ Please. _

Waited.

His heart lurched. _ No no no no no. _

And then, breath. And words, just above imperceptible: _ “Drag me.” _

Relief flooded Jason’s body. Standing, he took hold of Dick’s arms and pulled, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. When they got to the stairs, Jason heaved Dick’s body onto his shoulders with a grunt—_ fucking Dick could have helped a little _—and carried him, one step at a time, all the while feeling Dick’s heartbeat against his shoulders. His own heart seemed to be beating in time. 

At last, they reached the secondary door. A push, and they were alone. Finally.

“Get off,” Jason grunted. 

“Gentle!” Dick whispered, slipping down with the grace of a ballerina. He tugged off his mask and smoothed back his hair, pulling broken capsules of blood out from the dark locks. Then, he looked at Jason. Bright blue eyes, frustratingly beautiful. 

Neither of them said anything. Jason didn’t even know if he could.

“De Marco?” Dick asked at last. 

“Still alive,” Jason replied. _ For now, at least. _

“I’ll have Oracle alert the GCPD.” 

“Okay.”

Another pause. Then Dick raised a gentle hand—Jason’s breath caught in his throat—and dragged a finger along Jason’s cheekbone. “You got nicked,” he said.

“You took a knife to the thigh.”

“Only a small one.”

“And you died.”

Dick grinned slyly, striking a pose best described as something suggestive. “Does _ this _look dead to you?” he asked.

Jason rolled his eyes, grateful for a mask to hide his reddening face. “It will be, if you don’t stop.”

“Please. You freaked when you thought I’d died.”

“Only because your daddy would kill me.”

Dick grinned. “Liar.”

“Fine. Only because Cass would kill me.”

“Better.”

When he was sure his face had cooled, Jason unhooked the back of his mask, letting it fall from his face. He licked his dry lips, ignoring the ever-worsening soreness that spread over his body. He thought of Roman. “We should probably go,” he muttered.

Outside, Jason listened intently for the sound of Roman’s car, despite knowing there was no way for him to have made it to the club already. He breathed in the frozen Gotham air, pretending not to watch Dick as he limped into shadows. _ Hurt. _

“You were amazing,” Dick said suddenly. Quietly. It took Jason a moment to realize that he had even said it. 

“Oh.” He huffed. “I don’t—stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“It was your idea.”

“Yeah, but you…” Dick bit his lip, shrugging. A bit of fake blood dripped from his hairline. Jason had the sudden urge to wipe it away. “Anyone can pretend to die. It takes some talent to pretend to _ kill. _”

Jason kicked a stone down the street. He wanted to say, _ I’ve had experience. _ He wanted to say, _ I’m not always going to pretend. _ He wanted to say, _ I’m going to tear Roman’s throat out, before the end. _

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he’d lose Dick. And he knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t survive on his own. 

“So,” Jason said at last. “What’s next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK man... should I update the rating to Explicit? The violence is starting to pile up...
> 
> Come social distance with me on my [Discord channel!](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP)
> 
> Don't forget to check out [Reggie's art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377389/chapters/58359061).


	19. Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE:** After much deliberation, I have decided to bump Jason's age from 19 to 21. Previous chapters have been edited already. If you've been reading chapters as they're published, the only difference is that Jason spent seven years with Roman instead of five. 
> 
> Anyway, the unofficial title of this chapter is "The Jason Todd Trauma Hour." Shout out to my buddies on Discord for being the best and putting up with me. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** Mentions of drug use, drinking, and abuse, toxic thoughts.

Jason leaned over the edge of the balcony, resting his arms on the metal bannister. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Gotham stood in dark shadows against the setting sun. Whatever light peaked through was red and blinding, but cool enough to suggest the end of summer. Even the Upper East Side, where Bruce had set him up with an apartment of sorts, no longer felt cloaked with heat. 

Good. Jason hated working hot nights. His mask was already starting to smell a little weird, anyway. 

The sun shifted a little lower in the sky. Jason paused, squinted, and decided that an evening on the balcony wasn’t worth the pain of sunlight in his eyes. Sighing, he turned and headed back inside the apartment. His body ached where bullets had struck his armor, but he had gotten used to both the sensation and the concentrated bruises over his skin. After all those raids, they were pretty much a part of him. For now, at least.

Word spread quickly, of what he had done. What he supposedly did. There were some that didn’t believe him, higher-ups and rogues who knew that Bats don’t die—and if they did, they didn’t stay dead. But those people didn’t matter. It was the bottom of the pyramid that mattered. People who did the dirty work, and their dumb-as-fuck bosses like De Marco. And once they all were working for him, and they would be, it was only a matter of time before the rest of Roman’s empire came crashing down. 

Then, Jason would kill him. He didn’t know how or when, or how he’d hide the truth from Dick, but he knew that it had to be done. Roman was a weed. No matter how hard you tugged at the root, it would claw its ugly way back. 

A tiny thought found its way to the front of his mind. _ You can’t do it, _ it said. _ You’re not good enough. After all this work, you’re still going to fail. _

Jason forced it away. _ Don’t give in, _he told himself. That’s what Roman would want him to do. And if Roman would want him to do it, it shouldn’t be done. 

Ha! Now _ there’s _a motto to live by.

It was funny, in a way. If someone had told him three months ago that he would be thinking about Roman this way, he would have laughed in their face. Then he would have gotten high or drunk and started thinking about the things he said he didn’t think about. Except he didn’t even realize he was thinking them. But now he knew that he was, the whole time. Every time he hated himself, or felt useless, or was overcome by some general feeling of emptiness, it wasn’t _ him. _It was Roman. It was always Roman. 

So why the fuck couldn’t he stop? 

Though nearly healed, his cheek itched where De Marco’s bullet had nicked him. Scratching absent-mindedly, he collapsed on the couch and picked up his book, flipping through the pages until he found where he had left off. When it felt too quiet, he turned on the television to a random channel and let the voices fill the background. 

The apartment was, all-in-all, too familiar to the safehouse he had lived in for several weeks. Generic colors, generic furniture. It was a little bigger, what with it being in the Upper East Side and all, and now he had a phone and kitchen knives and clothes that fit, but it was essentially the same. 

He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

_ (You’re only temporary, _ the voice said. _ When this is over, they’ll throw you away.) _

At least there were books this time. Besides killing Dick, and intimidating gangsters, and ruining million-dollar deals, and taking a hundred grand’s payment from Roman’s former men, and hiding said hundred grand in a duffel bag in his closet, there wasn’t much to do. Sleep, eat, read, maybe get a little drunk, but only when he knew that Dick wouldn’t pop in for a visit. 

He was almost finished with the chapter when the news caught his attention. 

“—that the Batman is responsible for the capture of the rogue known as Killer Croc. Last night witnesses report—”

Jason stopped listening. _ Good for Batman, _he thought bitterly, not caring in the slightest. He gave it one, two months before Killer Croc broke out of Blackgate or Arkham or whatever and started killing people again. Part of him wanted to think that it was an ego thing for Bruce, beating the bad guys over and over again, but Jason also knew he was past that. Bruce wasn’t a narcissist. He just had a moral code—a dumb code, but a code nonetheless. 

_ (Which is why you’ll never fit in. The moment they find out what you’ve been doing on the side, what your plans are for Roman, it’s goodbye for you.) _

Sunset became dusk. Jason soon found that, as the light grew thin, he could hardly read the words on the page. As he reached over to turn on the floor lamp beside him, he heard the key in the lock. 

_ God damn it, _he thought. It was his night off. He had been planning on getting drunk staring at the cracks in the ceiling until he lost himself. Better throw that plan out the window. 

“Shouldn’t you be dead?” he asked as soon as he heard Dick step inside. He didn’t bother looking up from his book. If he saw Dick’s face, he’d stop being angry and start being...something else. He didn’t want to be something else. It wasn’t a good idea. Was it?

Dick’s smile was audible. “It’s been two weeks,” he said. “Shouldn’t you have come up with a better joke by now?” 

“If it ain’t broke.”

“Mmm. I’d say it’s broke. We both know I’m way too pretty to be dead.” 

Jason lost track of his place and stared harder at the page, as if he could press his gaze against the paper. “Do we now,” he muttered. The couch shifted; Dick had taken a seat next to him. 

Dick scooted closer to peer at his book. “What are you reading?”

_ “ American Psycho,” _he replied. When Dick reached for his book, he didn’t move. 

Dick’s hand fell. “Don’t be so stiff, Jay.”

“I’m not _ stiff.” _

“Uh huh.”

Jason threw the book down on the coffee table. “Do you need something, _ Dick?” _

_ Be nice, jackass. _

“Fuck, man. I’m just checking up on you,” Dick snapped. “It’s lonely, living in an apartment all by yourself.”

“Since when did you live alone?” Jason asked dryly. 

“I have an apartment in Blüdhaven. Didn’t you know that?” 

For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to Jason that Dick had an actual life outside of being Nightwing. Well. Obviously it had, but he had never consciously thought about it. _ Stupid selfish idiot. _

He shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

At the apology, Dick’s face lightened. “Shit, Jay. At least get to know a guy before you kill him.”

“In my experience,” Jason said, “that makes it harder.”

A moment passed before Dick seemed to understand what he had said. His brow furrowed, but his eyes remained soft. He didn’t shift uncomfortably like Jason expected him too. “I see,” he said. 

Jason said nothing. He stared at the television, watching images of some soup kitchen pass over the screen. It was familiar to him in the way that all soup kitchens look vaguely alike, with their sad white walls and aproned workers, but he did not recognize it. Or maybe he did. The days before his mom died had all started to blend together, one long streak of gray and hunger and cigarette smoke. 

“Anyway,” Dick continued, clearing his throat. “what are your plans for tonight?”

“Are we intercepting a raid?” he asked, itching for work. The harder they fought, the harder Roman would fall. 

_ (Like you’re _ ever _ going to win.) _

But Dick shook his head. “I’m just curious.” 

“Well. Pretty much this, then,” Jason muttered, motioning to the book. 

“Really.”

No, but Dick didn’t need to know that. “I’m easy to please,” he said.

“Good to know. You really don’t get bored?”

“Sometimes.” Jason found himself forcing down a smile. “It was pretty boring, sitting in a hospital bed for days on end.”

“Two days,” Dick corrected, a grin creeping over his face, “and that was your own choice, buddy. I could have made it fun. _ Real _ fun.”

Jason felt a knot harden in his gut. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?”

“Stay all you want,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. The sooner he could step away from Dick, the better. “But just act normal, okay? None of this—” He gestured vaguely. “—none of this coy shit. I’m not a doll.” 

“That’s not what I—”

“I don’t care. Save it for the cameras, like your dad does.” 

“Fine,” Dick snapped. His lip curled into a sneer. “Why don’t I beat you with a baseball bat while I’m at it? Make you _ real _comfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable, I’m just…” He didn’t know how to finish, so he scoffed instead, grabbing his book and noting the page number. _ Stupid idiot. Now look what you did. Should have just sat there and ignored it. _“Fuck. Sorry.” 

“You’re always fucking sorry.”

“Yeah.” With a long sigh, Jason set the book on the kitchen counter, scratching his chest where he had been shot. Looking at Dick, the itch evolved into something like an ache, hidden behind his ribs, in the depths of his stomach. _ Fuck, _ he thought. If he were still under Roman’s control, doing what Roman wanted, he probably would have had to do _ something _ Richard Grayson. _ Make a mess of it, _ Roman would have said. _ Make Bruce Wayne look bad. _

And Jason wouldn’t have even blinked an eye. He wouldn’t have even cared. 

_ That’s the kind of control Roman had over you. Still has. Look at you: all these successes and you’re _ still _ a weak piece of shit who can’t hold a conversation. _

Licking his lips, he stared at the mottled pattern of the plastic countertop. “Did you eat yet?” he asked. 

Dick leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. The few scars on his arms looked like lines of silver ore in the lamplight. After a moment, his face softened. “I _was_ thinking we’d order something in,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a break, you know?”

“A break.”

Though Jason didn’t tear his eyes from the countertop, he could _ feel _Dick’s eyes sparkling in his direction. “Yeah,” Dick said, “a break.”

_ You don’t deserve a break. _“This is already a break,” Jason said. “No raid tonight.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s good to take a break every once in a while. A _ real _break. Come on. When was the last time you did something for yourself?” 

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Dick whistled through his teeth. “Shit. Guess we better make it a good one.”

Jason huffed. 

“Come on. We’ll be better partners if we know each other a little better.” 

Now he looked up. “Partners?” he asked, as if tasting it on his tongue, as if it was the first time he had ever heard the term. “You’re dead.”

Dick shrugged, standing. He brushed a strand of hair behind his ears. It slipped out of place the second his hand fell to his side. “You’re a crime lord,” he said. “You need a lieutenant. A second-in-command.”

“Do I now,” Jason replied flatly, staring at the lock of Dick’s hair. It shone in the light, so black it was almost blue. It looked soft. 

“You can’t patrol when you’re dead. Do you really think I’d take a back seat for a month? Longer?”

“I thought you wanted a break.”

“Shut up,” Dick said, grinning. “At any rate, I thought the whole point of this was to seem like a legitimate threat. What kind of threat would you be, without a network of support?”

“You sound like Tim.”

“Heh. Talk about someone who doesn’t know when to stop. Pretty sure he’s stunted his growth.”

“I was small,” Jason said, “as a teen.”

“No. Really?” 

He nodded, and held a hand at chest level. “This high.”

“But now you’re so…” Dick looked him over, chewing on the inside of his cheek. A second passed. Another. Jason’s face began to grow warm. “You like Chinese? Let’s get Chinese. You can tell me how small you were over food, yeah? Get to know each other a little bit better. Jason and Dick. Not Nightwing and—well, you don’t really have a name yet, do you. Not a public one. Maybe we can work that out too. ”

He said all of this very fast. Jason could do nothing but stare dumbly. 

“Fine,” he muttered, though Dick was already on the phone. “Except I don’t do ‘bonding.’”

But Dick, it seemed, didn’t believe him. Dinner came with a barrage of questions.

“How much did it hurt,” Dick began, gesturing with a pair of chopsticks, “growing ten inches that fast?” 

“It didn’t,” Jason replied. He stared at the food in his take-out container, wondering if he could avoid questions if he dumped it all in his mouth and kept it there, like a gerbil. Probably not. 

“I don’t believe you. There was a month where I grew an inch and I could hardly move. Bruce wouldn’t let me go on patrol. It was awful.”

“Maybe you’re just weak.”

_ (Ha! Speak for yourself.) _

Dick stared into his water glass. Something dark churned behind his eyes, but as to what it was, Jason could not say. “Maybe you’re lying.”

Jason poked around in the container, sighed, and set down the chopsticks. “Look,” he said, “the truth is, I was hurting _ all _ the _ fucking time. _I have no idea if it hurt or not. Are you happy now?”

For a moment, he wondered if Dick would react in disgust. It wasn’t so much a return to his old way of thinking—_ perfect fucking Bats and their ‘holier than thou’ attitudes. If I tell him what I did then they’ll hate me and I can leave _—as it was something else. The voice. 

_ If he knows, _ it said, _ then he’ll hate you. You won’t survive on my own. _

He scowled into the take-out container, not wanting to think about that. He should be thinking about taking down Roman, and ending him for good. Breaks didn’t matter. Friends didn’t matter. Who cared if Dick—

Nope. There was Roman again, back in his head. God damn it. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dick asked.

“No.”

Dick said nothing, but his face might as well have been a billboard. _ That’s not healthy, _ it said. And maybe Jason knew that, deep down, but he also didn’t care. No, more than that. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. Who knew what that shit would make him _ feel. _

All of a sudden there was a hand on his. Dick turned his wrist over, staring at the long white scar that ran parallel to the bone, like an arrow toward his elbow. His finger hovered over the skin with an intimate gentleness, like the brush of butterfly’s wings. A second passed. Neither of them moved. Dick looked as though he had forgotten what he was doing, or perhaps as though he didn’t know how to proceed. 

“Where’d you get this?” he asked at last. 

Remembering himself, Jason yanked his hand away, his face burning. “Why do you care?”

“You touch it a lot.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“Unconsciously, I mean,” Dick elaborated. He was blushing too, or the tips of his ears were. “You don’t have to tell me, it’s just…I noticed you do it when you’re deep in thought.”

Jason hadn’t. He stared at the scar along his arm, trying to remember where it had even come from. A knife fight? An ambush? A punishment? Maybe, maybe, maybe. It seemed his early memories weren’t the only things blending together. “You’re fucking with me,” he said flatly.

“Nope.” 

“Whatever.” He flexed his hand, then went back to picking at sweet and sour chicken. “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t remember how I got it.”

“You don’t?”

“You’re telling me you remember every single one of your scars?”

“Well, no, but that’s a pretty big scar to forget.”

Jason looked at him, brow raised. “What do you think this is? The Jason Todd Trauma Hour?” he asked, scoffing. “I’m fine, Dickhead. Really. It’s over. It’s done. Don’t want to talk about it. Comprende?” 

It was clear Dick’s smile was hiding a sneer. “Fine. New topic, then,” he said sharply.

“New topic.”

“Favorites?” 

He scoffed again. “Thought we’ve been over this. I like red, you like blue. I like Jane Austen, you like Holly Black. Mexican food, Thai food. Fog, sunshine. Apples, peaches.”

Dick’s smile molded into something softer, maybe even something genuine. “You have a good memory.”

“No, you’re just bad at small talk.”

“How _ dare _you?” Dick asked, feigning indignation. “I’m famously charismatic.”

“I'm pretty sure the rogues would say you’re famously annoying.”

“Ha! Now _ you _sound like Tim.”

Jason shrugged. He set his take-out container on the table and leaned back in his chair. Dick was smirking somewhat, not in a smug way, but with just enough mischievousness to make his eyes sparkle. God, they were blue. They made him think back to the night they met, when he was still Roman’s dog and Dick was Richard Grayson, Rich Bastard. Dick was nice even then, far nicer than Jason, especially _ that _Jason, deserved.

His thoughts darkened as an emptiness opened in his chest. _ Fuck, _ he thought. How could someone like Dick ever be nice to someone like him? Jason wasn’t good enough, he’d never be good enough, even if he killed Roman he’d still be the same person that _ lied _ and _ cheated _ and _ blackmailed _ and _ murdered _for years on end. It’s not like he’d ever been a good person, anyway. Even before Roman, he was a thief, the son of a criminal and a drug addict. While he was lifting wallets, Dick was saving people. 

Whatever this was, Jason decided, it was a bad idea. And yet he couldn’t stop. It felt good to think of working with Dick, being his _ friend _ and _ partner _. Even sitting here, deflecting stupid questions from a stupid dead vigilante, he couldn’t find a reason to hate it, other than that voice in his head that told him he was a—

_ Worthless piece of shit. _

“You’re doing it,” Dick said. 

When he looked, Jason saw that he was scratching his wrist. God damn it, the bastard was right. He stopped immediately. “It itched,” he lied.

“Uh huh.”

“Really.”

Dick held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“Please. You’re an open book.”

“I suppose that makes one of us.” 

Jason flipped him off. “Not all of us grew up having a million adopted siblings to unload on. If I need help, I’ll let you know.” 

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

A small silence fell between the two of them. Dick stood, gathering up empty cartons and napkins. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, dropping them in the trash can. “I don’t really believe you.”

_ Of course he doesn’t. You’re a liar and a piece of shit. You’ll never be partners. You don’t stand a chance against Roman. _

Jason gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles were drained of blood. _ Stop, _he thought, focusing all his energy into the strain of his fingers. Squeeze. Hold. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“The night of Bruce’s gala,” he said, and something like shock burst inside Jason. 

He swallowed. Squeezed. Held. “What about it?”

Dick leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were fixed on the floor. “I didn’t approach you because you were with Roman. I did it because…” His brow furrowed, as if he were arranging a sentence on the carpeted floor. “...because of the _ look _on your face. I’m not like Bruce or Tim, you know. I can’t just tell what a person is thinking. But even I knew, Jason.”

Jason stared. The urge to _ hurt _ froze his muscles in tight positions, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. _ See? _ asked the voice. _ You’re too weak to hear the truth, even from someone you— _

“The person I saw was stubbornly miserable. Didn’t even know it. Didn’t _ want _ to know it. And it wasn’t you. I don’t even think I really met _ you _ until the manor. Still haven’t, really.”

Silence fell again, this time heavy enough to press Jason toward the floor. His body ached. His mouth was sticky-dry. Every time he tried to speak, the words calcified on his tongue. _ Say something. Say something. He’s right. Tell him he’s right. Tell him, you _

_ worthless piece of shit. _

Sighing, Dick sat down across from him again. He reached out, then paused, his hand resting mere inches from Jason’s. So close. Jason could almost feel the warm tips of his fingers. “I want to know you, Jason. _ All _ of you. Not just the parts you choose to share.”

_ You’ll drive him away. You’ll drive all of them away. And then you’re going to lose, because you won’t survive on your own. Worthless piece of shit. _

_ Stop, _ Jason thought, so hard his temples began to ache. _ Stop. You aren’t me. You’re Roman. Stop. _

“Jason?”

_ Piece of shit. _

A sudden cry tore from his lips. “Stop!” he choked, and at once his muscles tore free. He pushed himself away from the table, jumped to his feet. His breaths came in jagged, empty bursts.

“Fuck you,” Dick snarled. “Someone had to say—”

“No.”

Dick blinked, clearly caught halfway in an outburst. Open mouth. Tense jaw. “What?” he asked flatly.

“It’s not you,” Jason replied. His words were so quiet he wasn’t sure Dick had heard them. “ It’s just… I hear—in my head—all the time—”

_ You can’t even get a sentence out, can you? Idiot. _

Huffing in frustration, Jason walked over to the cabinets, pulled out the bottle of gin he had hidden behind the sink. _ Fuck it, _he thought, ignoring the confused protestations coming from the table. It’s what they both needed. Dick wanted to know all of him, didn’t he? 

He drank deeply, only stopping when a foreign hand pushed the bottle away from his lips. “Fuck,” he breathed, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I’m twenty-one. It’s legal.” 

“Yeah? Well, that doesn’t mean you should.”

_ He’s right again, you fucking— _

“Shut up and let me have this,” Jason snapped, then wished he hadn’t. The neck of the bottle was cool in his hands even as his neck and face blushed from alcohol, or shame, or something else entirely. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. 

Slowly, Dick took the gin from his hands and set it on the counter. “Do you want to sit?” he asked.

Jason nodded. He felt his thoughts regressing to simple statements. Sofa. Sit. Talk. Dick. By the time he was seated, there was only one of them left: _ Dick. _

A glass of water appeared in his vision. He took it but did not drink. “Thanks,” he muttered, setting it on the coffee table.

“How long have you been drinking?” 

It was a question, but it felt more like a demand. At least he knew how to answer this one. The first time he drank was in Roman’s car, on the way to see the man in room 513. But he didn’t start _ drinking _ until he was fifteen and had failed to secure a shipment of explosives. Lost Roman two hundred grand. Sears bruised three of his ribs and broke two more. Lionel wrapped him up and left him with a flask of whisky— “Won’t waste pills on _ you,” _ he said.

Jason told him this. Dick did nothing but nod.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked, resisting the urge to laugh. It wasn’t funny, but it was. Of course Dick would be _ sorry. _Boy fucking Wonder, indeed.

“Because that’s horrible, Jay.”

“Oh.”

“It’s human compassion. Try learning it sometime.”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. “You're right. I should,” he muttered, reaching for the water glass. It wasn’t that he needed it—like a little bit of gin could get him shit-faced—rather, he just wanted something to hold. Something to wrap his fingers around. Sitting next to Dick, he suddenly felt very singular. 

“Do you want to talk about anything else?” Dick asked.

Jason snorted. “You say that like you’re giving me a choice.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

His gut reaction was to say no. Move on. But then again there was a certain lightness about him, as if a knot in his back had suddenly been worked out by strong, deft hands. He could breathe again. Think without hearing the voice. Without intending to, Jason suddenly found himself thinking about Dick, and how much he didn’t want to lose him.

He squeezed the glass until it threatened to shatter. “Don’t know what to talk about,” he muttered.

Dick folded his arms over his chest and shrugged, staring at the water in Jason’s hands. “Why don’t we start with how you’re feeling?” 

Instinctively, the word _ fine _ pressed against his lips. Jason caught it at the last moment. _ Not fine. Never fine, because you’re a piece of—not doing great. _

Breathe in, breathe out. 

“My arms and legs feel like shit,” he replied. “All I want to do is hit someone or get hit or get drunk. I’ve been accepting money from the gang leaders and I don’t know what to do with it. I’d kill for a Valium right about now. Or any benzo, really. And I’m—” He stopped suddenly, waiting to gauge Dick’s reaction. Waiting to see if he crossed the line. 

_ He’s gonna hate you, _the voice said. 

Dick’s face was blank. “And?” 

Jason scowled into the water glass, then set it back. Rubbing condensation between his fingers, he said, “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Breathe in, breathe out. 

“I don’t want you to hate me. Fuck!” He buried his head in his hands, shaking with frustration. No, relief. Laughter? “That’s so fucking stupid, isn’t it? I tried to kill you, and you still didn’t hate me. I can’t believe—I’m so fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Dick said. “You’re a fucking asshole sometimes, but you’re not stupid.

“Please.” He sat up and gave Dick a look. “You’re capable of hating anyone. I should have known.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re perfect.”

“Stop saying that.” 

“Boy Wonder.”

Dick clenched his fists. “I said, _ stop saying that!” _ he hissed. “Fuck, Jay. Be a decent person for _ once.” _

Jason paused. “Shit,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m trying, really.”

“Are you? Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.”

“I am. It’s just—” When he looked down, he saw that he was rubbing his wrist. “—I’m still trying to find myself inside everything _ he _made.”

“You mean Roman,” Dick said.

“Most of the time I don’t even know who I am,” Jason said.

Dick paused, rubbing his own wrist as if he could feel the emotions inside Jason. A long minute passed between them. Then, he spoke. “You said you were taking money?”

_ Here we go, _ the voice said. _ This is the part where he— _

Jason nodded toward his bedroom. “In the closet. I just thought—these guys are sheep. They need to work for _ someone _. It’s only temporary,” he added quickly. “After Roman is out of the picture, I’ll take them down too.”

A wave of relief washed over him when he saw that Dick didn’t appear angry. Hell, he seemed almost amused. 

“Look. I know I’m working with a crime lord,” Dick said. “That was the point, wasn’t it? But the _ closet? _Ha!” He chuckled, and the sofa bounced with him. Jason thought about holding onto the water glass again. “That’s one step above hiding it under the mattress.”

Jason felt his face burning. Either Dick had gotten funnier, or he was drunker than he thought. “Or in the tin on the mantle,” he added. 

“That’s what my parents did,” Dick said. “Well. Not on the mantle—we didn’t have one—and only our tips. We had a bank account like everyone else.” 

“Your parents, the circus acrobats?”

“Trapeze artists. The Flying Graysons.”

A forgotten memory struck him like a knife to the gut. “Shit,” Jason breathed.

“What?”

_ Two tickets. Sitting in the stands. Next to Dad. The smell of sugar and popcorn. “The Flying Graysons.” Watching _ him. _ The most amazing thing you had ever seen. You didn’t know it was possible to be that happy. That free. _

“I think I—I _ saw _ you.” Damn. How could he not have put two and two together? Roman was always talking about Wayne’s _ fucking circus brat, _ how it was such a _ big fucking deal _ , how Roman would never make a show of _ pulling a rodent off the street. _Richard Grayson. Flying Grayson.

Dick looked as shocked as he felt. Maybe even a little flattered. “Really?” he asked. “That’s—wow. I don’t…” 

The lighting was poor, but Jason could tell a blush was creeping up Dick’s neck. He smiled quietly; he could not help it. _ Idiot, _he thought, but it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t the voice.

“Guess that’s another thing for you and Tim to talk about,” Dick finished. _ “How much of a dork was Baby Dick?” _

His smile stretched into a full grin. “A,” he began, “don’t say ‘Baby Dick’ ever again. And B—” _ you were the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Have ever seen? _“—you weren’t a dork.”

“Ha!”

“I’m serious.”

“Damn, Todd,” Dick said, his eyes twinkling. “You really don’t know me at all.”

_ Tell him. Don’t tell him. Shut up. Be honest. He’s amazing. Tell him. Fuck! _

“I don’t have a lot of good memories,” Jason replied at last, “but that was one of them. I don’t remember a dork at all. And if Tim does, maybe that’s because he’s fucking with you.” 

“Oh.” Dick shifted on the sofa, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s um...thanks.”

“I mean, you’re kind of a dork now.”

“Says the nerd.”

Jason said nothing. 

“Well, it could be worse. At least we’re good-looking dweebs, am I right?”

Again, Jason said nothing. He squeezed his fists shut until he knew his nails would leave crescent-moons along his palms. _ Don’t be fooled. He hates you. He hates you. He hates you. _

_ He doesn’t hate me. _

Dick cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at him. “Anyway, what are the others?” he asked. 

“The other what?”

“Good memories.” He smiled. “Thought you didn’t want this to be the Jason Todd Trauma Hour?” 

“I can count my good memories on one hand,” Jason replied. “I think that’s basically the same thing, just flipped around.”

“Then how about this.” Dick looked around, craning his neck until he saw the remote on the side table. Turning on the television, he asked, “What’s your favorite movie?”

Jason blinked. “What?”

“You said you don’t have a lot of good memories, so…” Shrugging, Dick turned the remote over in his hands, smiling as if he were embarrassed to. “Let’s make another.”

_ Fuck, _ Jason thought. He picked up the water glass and downed it in one go, hoping the chill would cool his cheeks. If only it were tequila, or vodka, or gin, or anything else, really. At least then he’d have had an excuse for his mind going places where it shouldn’t—_really _ shouldn’t, _ objectively _ shouldn’t. It was nothing at all like the voice that had been there before. This one liked blue eyes and black hair and wide smiles, and _ wanted _them, and it was stupid, incredibly stupid, because… 

He didn’t know. 

When he finished, he sighed and held his hands in his lap, threading the fingers over each other. “I don’t have a favorite,” he said. “I’m sure I’d like whatever you pick.”

“You’re sure?”

Jason nodded. He was getting tired, anyway. Maybe the gin was finally getting to him. His head ached slightly, his eyelids grew heavy. 

But he stayed awake, ever-aware of Dick’s body sitting upright next to his, warm and relaxed and full of life. It didn’t matter what the movie was. It played on the screen, showing flashy outfits and cracking jokes, and Dick was laughing because of course he was, and suddenly Jason couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t see anything else. 

_ He hates you. You’ll never be good enough. What are you going to do after you kill Roman, huh? Pretend it didn’t happen! Ha! You’re a bad person. You’ve always been a bad person. _

Jason sunk lower into the couch. “You don’t hate me,” he muttered. 

“Hmm?” 

“You don’t hate me.”

Something dark passed over Dick’s face. Even when troubled, he was so beautiful, someone that made Jason’s chest tighten and his mind wander to places it had never been. And he was gentle, and kind, and his laugh was loud and genuine enough to warm even the darkest corners of a room. _ Doesn’t hate me. _

“Jay,” he said softly, “I don’t hate you.”

He sunk lower, until his face was even with Dick’s. “I know.”

“I don’t loathe you, either.” 

“I _ know.” _

“I meant what I said, the other night,” Dick said. “You are amazing, Jay. I hope I get to know you more.”

Jason huffed, then wondered why he did. When he looked at Dick, he didn’t see someone with a face full of pity, or concern, or disdain. He saw only _ Dick. _

And he knew that Dick saw him too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )
> 
> I've mentioned a few times that I love writing fight scenes. If you're interested, I made a PDF with some tips for writing them. You can view it here: **[FIGHT SCENE TIPS](https://docdro.id/mTpJZiD)**


	20. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So first of all, a million and one thank yous to [Balloonacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balloonacy/pseuds/Balloonacy) and [Reggie2Hoood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reggie2Hood) who drew **literally perfect** art for this fic. Go leave comments and kudos, because I can only leave one kudos on each and that is a crime. 
> 
> [Balloonacy's Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224140)   
[Reggie's Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377389/chapters/58359061)
> 
> You may notice that this chapter is **long**. This is because the first section should have been added to the last chapter, but because I was lazy then I had to make up for it now. Eventually (in a week or so) I will be performing a section transplant between these two chapters.
> 
> **Warning for this chapter:** Graphic violence

Jason woke to the sound of his own name. 

The world came back to him, slowly at first. He could see that there was darkness, could hear the soft rush of his breath, could feel the weight of his eyelids threatening to drag him back under. Something solid supported the weight of his head, a soft warmth that stretched from the crook of his neck up towards his ear. 

“Jason.” His name came from just above him. Someone nudged his arm, gently. 

That was enough. The skin of his arms lit up in shock; his pulse skyrocketed. Instinctively he reached for a weapon, any weapon, only to find that there was none. He was not in Roman’s penthouse. This was the apartment Bruce had given him. The only other person here was Dick. 

“Sorry,” Jason mumbled, rubbing his arms to chase away the pin-pricks of adrenaline. _ Safe, _ he thought. _ Safe. Safe. Safe. _

Dick was sitting next to him, looking half-startled, half-sheepish. His left sleeve was pushed up his arm, crumpled as if someone had been—

Fuck.

Jason raised a hand to his cheek, felt the imprint of fabric in his skin. Now his face was on fire. “I fell asleep,” he said, dumbly.

“Yeah.”

“How long.”

Dick scratched the back of his neck. Across from them, the television screen was dark. The sky was dark. “A while,” he said. His eyes were fixed on the floor. 

Jason scoffed to cover up the urge to run away. “You should have pushed me off.”

“I would have, if you didn’t wake up.”

“That’s not what I meant.,” he replied. The shock had started to subside. Jason no longer felt _ fight or flight _running through his limbs, though a faint tingle remained, like an aftershock. “You know what I meant.”

“You looked—you looked tired,” Dick said. His face was as red as Jason’s felt. “And I didn’t mind. Really.”

“I’m not in the habit of being _ touched. _ Especially when I’m asleep. And no,” Jason added quickly, “I’m not gonna talk about it. It is what it is.”

Nodding, Dick stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. His eyes still did not meet Jason’s. “Fine. Won’t happen again,” he said, walking away. 

“Where are you going?” Jason asked. 

“Bathroom. Woke you up for a reason.”

Jason scowled into his shirt, sinking into the couch until the crown of his head rested on the back. The right side of his face shivered in the quiet air of the apartment. When he touched it, he still felt the imprint of Dick’s shirt. It would fade, eventually. 

_ Fucking idiot, letting down your guard like that. _

He shrugged off the thought, standing to pour himself a glass of water. Anything to cool down. As he drank, his eye found the bottle of gin. Something stirred in his stomach. He looked away. The last thing he needed was for Dick to come out of the bathroom and find him chugging liquor again. There was already a _ talk _ coming; no way would the Bats just let that one go. But if Jason started drinking again now, Dick would ask him _ why, _ and then they’d talk about _ touching. _ Now _ there _ was a can of worms. 

Setting the glass down in the sink, Jason stared at the tea kettle, at his elongated reflection on its surface. The imprints on his right cheek had begun to fade. The circles beneath his eyes had not. He looked older than twenty-one in some intangible way—the chasm behind his pupils, the air of friction and experience about him—though he could not help but feel younger. Foolish. Naive. Confused. 

“What are you thinking?” Dick asked. 

Jason turned around without looking at him. “Nothing.”

“You’re touching your wrist again.”

_ Dammit. _“So?”

Dick flipped on the lights, washing the living area in a blinding yellow. It was a few moments before Jason could see past the dark spots in his vision. When he did, he saw that Dick had lifted his shirt, and thought about the glass in the sink. 

“See this?” Dick asked, pointing to a scar in his midsection. It was a small, round thing, hardly bigger than the pad of his thumb. Jason was struck by the sudden urge to run his fingers over it, which only made him scowl into his collar. “The Joker shot me.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” 

Sighing, Dick let his shirt fall back down. “I couldn’t stop touching it for a while. Even when I was still recovering, and it felt like I was shoving a needle into my muscle. Couldn’t help it.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“Why do you rub your wrist, Jason?”

“It’s a tic,” Jason said, walking toward the couch. “Nothing more.”

“What are you doing?”

He flopped down on the cushions, tucked the throw pillows beneath his neck. “Going back to sleep. You can take my bed if you want.”

“It’s your apartment.”

“It’s not _ my _apartment,” Jason said. “And I’m fine, really. Take the bed.”

“If you’re certain…” 

Behind him, Jason could hear the steady sigh of Dick’s breathing. Both of them, it seemed, had frozen in place: him on the couch, Dick standing in the space behind him. Dick, who wants to know him better. Who _ sees _him. 

A warmth spread from the right side of his face down his neck, his abdomen. _ Say something, _ he told himself. _ Say something, for fuck’s sake. _

The sound of feet shuffling over carpet. “Well,” Dick said softly, “I’ll let you sleep, then.”

_ Say something, _ he thought again, but his tongue would not move. It was as if there was a sheet of metal between his thoughts and his voice, adamant and stubborn. He didn’t want it there. He didn’t _ put _ it there. And yes, it was thinner than before, no longer the impenetrable force that Roman had built in his head—brick by brick, scar by scar—but it was still there. If only he could—

“Dick?” he said quietly. 

A pause. “Yeah?”

Jason licked his lips. “Thank you. For everything.”

There was another pause. Jason’s heart was a drum in his throat, his face a hearth. _ Come on, _ he thought. _ Tell me I’m hopeless. Tell me I’m an idiot. _

At last, Dick spoke. “Always,” he said. 

More footsteps. A door closed. 

Something unwound inside of Jason. He exhaled slowly, feeling his shoulders move with the gentle release of breath. The only noise in the apartment was some humming he could not place. A heater, or perhaps an old lightbulb in the hall outside. In the distance, a dog barked; a car honked. 

Jason drew his knees into his chest and tried to fall asleep. Closed eyes, even breaths, body bent into a lightning bolt. It was no use. His mind raced, moving from himself to Roman to Dick, from the heat in his neck to the feel of a shirt against the skin there. And he hated himself, for letting his guard down, for being closed off, for wanting more. 

Hours passed before he finally drifted off to sleep.

♟♟♟

He managed to avoid Dick for some of the morning, waking up early to go out and purchase him a toothbrush from a nearby convenience store. He left it on the table with a note—_Going for a run. Do whatever.— _and spent the next hour running through the streets of the Upper East Side, watching the sun climb toward the apex of the sky. When it felt as though his heart might burst through his chest, he returned, sweating, with an ache that he could not attribute to the run. 

In the apartment he went straight for the shower, hardly acknowledging Dick’s nod of _ Good Morning _ from the corner of the living room. As he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, he wondered if Dick liked the smell of _ Cool Sport Mint _or whatever the fuck it was, then pretended that he didn’t care. 

Jason knew what would happen if he let himself go too far. They were different people, him and Dick, and one day Dick would realize that Jason was not worth his effort. Because he wasn’t. Dick Grayson was Gotham’s best and brightest: Boy Wonder, Nightwing, all-around good and cheerful guy. And Jason Todd… Well. He was a bastard, a liar, an addict, and more. He had killed, blackmailed, or slept with countless people, sometimes for Roman, sometimes because he enjoyed it. Not all of it was Roman’s doing. Deep down, Jason knew that his true self was and would always be corrupt. 

Dick didn’t deserve to carry the burden of his trauma. 

He had just finished brushing his teeth when a knock sounded from the other side of the bathroom door. “A minute,” he muttered, throwing on a clean shirt and drawing his fingers through the messy waves of his hair. 

“I, um, got a call from Bruce,” Dick said. 

Jason pulled the door open and was met with shocking blue eyes. “What?” he asked gruffly, swallowing the urge to run his hands down that perfect fucking face. Instead he looked past Dick, around Dick, above Dick.

“He says there’s an opportunity for us.” Dick’s eyes scanned Jason’s torso, then looked quickly at the floor. “I mean, you know, for the thing. Mission.” 

“You’re eloquent today.”

“I’m always eloquent.”

“Fair,” Jason said, pushing past Dick to drop his sweaty clothes in the hamper. He saw that his bedspread was crumpled; Dick had clearly tried to make it but didn’t know to fold the sheet over the bedspread. It was cute, in a way.

_ Shit. _

“Anyway,” Dick said from the doorway. “I figured we could eat, then head back to the manor to get the intel on the raid.”

“It’s a raid?” 

“Some of Roman’s—well, some of _ your _men are doing a trade with an international arms dealer. Babs picked up chatter a few nights ago. Remember De Marco?”

Thoughts of Dick lying limp and bloodied flashed through Jason’s mind. Idiot was too good at pretending. “I don’t think I can forget.”

“Turns out he had a deal set up, before everything went down. Now that he’s out of the picture, his men are carrying it through.”

“Jackson,” Jason said. He no longer thought about Dick; now he saw De Marco at Roman’s feet, broken beyond recognition. Limbs torn. Eyes gouged. He had seen enough of Roman’s reminders to know what was done to them, before the end. 

“Who?” Dick asked.

“That’s who I put in charge, after…you know.”

Dick nodded. “Whatever you did seems to have worked. No one’s heard from De Marco since that night.” 

_ That’s because I lied about De Marco, _ Jason thought. _ Because I’m a bad person. No matter what you think, I’m a bad person, and I’m going to kill Roman. _

He cleared his throat, scowled at the floor. “Anyway, where do we come in?” 

“Turns out Roman doesn’t want your ‘guys’ to have those weapons.” Dick grinned slyly. “Who’d’ve thunk it.” 

“So his men are the raiders this time around.”

“Yup. And we’re the raidees.”

“Was that all Bruce said?” 

Dick shrugged. “Short call.”

“Yeah. Bruce doesn’t strike me as the type to have sentimental goodbyes.”

“You’re catching on quickly.”

“It’s been months,” Jason said. It felt strange, putting a name to the time he had spent with the Bats. The days themselves had felt eternal—recovering from the torture Roman put him through, waiting for Roman’s call, lying in the hospital bed, also Roman’s fault—and it felt like years had passed since he had last stepped foot in the penthouse. 

And yet, yesterday he had broken into a gas station. The day before that, he was pretending to be a scared little boy. And before that, he was in the mythology exhibit at the MoMA, talking to Bruce Wayne’s beautiful ward. 

Fuck. 

Dick must have felt the same way, judging by the look on his face. “So it has,” he muttered. A small smile crept over his face. “Some transition for you, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I meant it kindly.” 

Jason held his tongue, pushing past Dick to find his boots by the entryway. Work. He needed to work. The sooner he had something to do, the sooner he could stop thinking. The sooner he could take down Roman and put a bullet between his eyes. 

Lacing his boots over his feet, he said, “We should get going.”

“You’re focused today.” 

“It’s what we’re supposed to be doing,” he muttered. 

Dick pressed his lips into a thin line. Leaning against the wall, he said, “Don’t you want to eat first?”

“We should be working.” Jason stood, flexed his feet inside his boots while staring at the floor. “Break’s over.”

“You need to take care of yourself.” 

“Fine,” Jason snapped. He marched over to the cabinets, flung one open, grabbed a handful of protein bars, and shoved them in his pocket. “Breakfast.” 

“Protein bars?”

“They’re better than fucking Wheat Thins.”

Dick pulled a face. “I don’t know. I was thinking more—”

“More what? Waffles and bacon? Home-fried potatoes?” He tried to laugh like he was amused, though he worried it came out bitter. Angry. 

_ Dick doesn’t deserve that. _

Jason licked his lips. “Like I said,” he added, softly, as if to make up for the outburst. “Break’s over.”

Dick nodded, slowly. “I guess you’re right.” 

“I’m, um, grateful it happened. Really. Thank you.” 

“You're welcome.”

“But we should go.”

“So you’ve established.” Dick smiled again, and clapped him on the shoulder.Jason shied away from the touch, pretending he did not remember the feel of his head on Dick’s shoulder, the warmth of his body. “No need to beat a dead horse, yeah?” he said, grabbing his jacket from the hook behind Jason. His skin smelled rich and sweet, not at all like _ Cool Sport Mint. _

Jason froze. But he was not the only one. Dick, too, seemed rooted in place, with one hand clutching his jacket and the other dangling loosely at his side. When he finally remembered himself, he said, “Then let’s go.”

“Let’s,” Dick replied, and walked quickly out the door.

The car ride was mainly silent. When it became suffocating, Jason fiddled with the radio controls for some time, listening to various genres of static before giving up and staring out the window. “Your car’s shit,” he said, hoping his words sounded more like a joke than a complaint. 

Dick shrugged. “It’s mine.”

“I can’t believe Bruce lets you drive around in it.”

“He doesn’t _ let _ me do anything. It’s my car whether he likes it or not.”

Right; he had almost forgotten about the strain between the two of them. A question graced the edge of his tongue, but he worked up the control to swallow it. Digging into Dick’s life would give him a greater reason to dig back. 

“Ah,” Jason said. “Rebellion.”

“I’m my own person. That’s not rebellion.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jason said, “I think Roman would beg to differ, wouldn’t you?” 

“Maybe.” Dick smiled. “But you’re a special case. Call me crazy, but I think your _ literal _rebellion might be shaping your image.” 

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Jason said.

“What would you call it, then?”

He thought for a moment. “A defenestration.” 

“Good word.”

“Thanks.”

Red light. The car rolled to a gentle stop. Only ten, fifteen minutes to go. Jason could see the churning waves of the bay, pockets of gray pushing against the rocky shores of Gotham. The light that hit them was thin, hardly enough to turn the surface blue. Not that Jason ever remembered seeing blue waves. It was as if the evils of Gotham had poisoned the waters around the city. Roman would have called that evil _ lies _ and _ falsehoods. _

Jason didn’t know what to call it. All he knew was that Roman deserved to suffer, and that the bay had nothing on Dick Grayson’s eyes. 

He said little else until the two of them were walking down the stairs to the cave, and even then it felt stilted, as if a robot had taken over his voice.

“Here,” he said, handing Dick a protein bar.

Dick looked at it. “What’s this for?”

“You didn’t eat either.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Jason shrugged, staring at the steps beneath his feet. He could hear voices further down, at least two or maybe three. Only one he recognized, or thought he did. “You need to take care of yourself too. Don’t be a fucking hypocrite.”

Dick stopped walking, looking as though he didn’t know what to say. 

An anchor dropped in Jason’s stomach. Instinct told him to expect the worst, to brace himself for the confession of disdain, or antipathy, or pure hatred. But at the same time he knew this could not be the case, because Dick did not hate him, did not ever hate him. And if not that, what was there to tell? 

Finally, Dick sighed. “Thank you,” he said again. 

Jason nodded, slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be close to Dick, a thought that frightened and lured him all at once. No more fighting. No more Roman. Just him sitting next to Dick, resting his head on his shoulder, being called  _ amazing _ again and again until Dick’s stupid voice was the only thing in the universe.

But at the same time he knew this was the farthest he could let it go. Dick Grayson was fucking perfect. Dick Grayson deserved more than him, a collection of repressed memories that had every intention of killing again. 

“Thank you for last night,” Jason replied, discarding the thoughts in his head. “Nothing like confessions to spice up an evening, you know?”

Dick smiled kindly. “Do you have another, now?” 

“Another what?”

“Good memory.”

Jason exhaled sharply in place of a laugh. “If it makes you happy.”

“It does,” Dick said, and turned quickly to continue down the stairs. 

In the command center of the cave Bruce and Tim. They leaned over a woman in a wheelchair—Oracle, Jason presumed, based on what he had been told—who appeared to be pointing out something on the screen. Further away, Cass sat on a stool, drinking tea. She waved at Jason, then pointed to her cheek as if to say, _ nice cut. _

Jason tried and failed to work up the strength to wave back. He _ should _ have waved back. He _ should _ have been as friendly and open as she is, as Dick wanted him to be. But he couldn’t. It just wasn’t him.

Tim nodded at him as he approached. “That was fast,” he noted. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a bruise along the left side of his jaw. Patrol, Jason assumed. That would explain the sour look on Bruce’s face.

Dick nodded. “I was already—” He paused, biting his lip. “—we were near each other, when you called.” 

Jason knew better than to read into the lie. 

“That’s lucky,” Tim said.

“Yep.”

Oracle, Babs, looked up from the computer to smile at Jason. “You must be Jason.” She offered a hand; he accepted. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“Babs, right?”

Her green eyes sparkled. “You got it. Don’t worry about catching up on the details, by the way. It shouldn't be an issue, if you’ve got half the brain Dick says you have.”

Though his cheeks burned, Jason managed to keep a straight face. “I’m all ears,” he said, glancing furtively at Dick. _ What is this, _ he wanted to ask. _ What are you saying about me? _

“There’s a thing, yeah?” she said, tapping her computer. Her screen lit up with a map of Gotham, showing red lines across a section of the Docks. “Firearms deal inside an old ship warehouse.”

“Okay.”

“I filled him in,” Dick said. “Whatever Bruce told me, he knows.” 

Bruce pulled his lips into a fine line. “Information can be lost in the delivery of messages. We can’t afford to be wrong.”

“You said _ three things _, Bruce.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Dick pursed his lips, but said nothing. He stared at Bruce, jaw tense, as if he were struggling to hold his comments behind his tongue. As Jason watched the silent, heated exchange between the two of them, he once again became acutely aware of his position as an outsider, the one who did not understand the complications of their world. A thing in development. 

Chewing on his lip, he stared at the blue lights in a distant corner of the cave. His hands turned over each other as he realized: he had no idea what was back there. All he had ever seen of the cave were the sights visible from this spot. The training ring, the supercomputer, the strange momentos Bruce had salvaged from his victories. He never had the chance to see more. No one had invited him. 

Of course they didn’t. 

“According to intel, Roman’s men are going to come on the scene here,” Babs said, breaking the silence. She pointed at a spot on her screen, next to where the deal was to take place. “Long story short, you two—a.k.a. Jason and his lieutenant—are gonna make sure they don’t get the firearms. During the fight, you will make sure the firearms are too damaged to be distributed into Gotham’s underbelly.”

“I’ve got the cryo capsules primed,” Tim added. “The acid in them should be enough to render the weapons basically useless without drawing attention to the mess.”

_ Cryo capsules, _ Jason thought. _ I didn’t even know they had those. _

“Got it,” Dick replied. “What do you think, Jay?”

_ They made an entire plan without you. _

“Jay?” 

He nodded, thinking, _ you’re not like them at all. The person Dick likes isn’t even the real you. _

“The good news is, you don’t have to die this time_ , _” Babs said. She glanced at Jason, then pretended that she had not. He bit his cheek until he tasted blood. “If all goes to plan, the gangs will lose access to firearms but will still respect Jason.” 

A small part of him wanted to like the plan, but another was too far gone to want anything but a chance to punch the wall and scream. 

“Why?” he blurted out. Everyone turned to look at him, and his face burned. “This is irrelevant. It’s not going to stop Black Mask.”

Dick pursed his lips. “This isn’t any different from before, Jay. I only thought—” 

“I killed you because they need to see me as a threat. Now they know,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets so the others couldn’t see the frustration in his clenched fists. “We need to move on from petty raids.” 

“Power doesn’t plateau,” Bruce said. “It will fall if you don’t feed it.”

“You’re right,” Jason snapped. “But it also has to _ escalate. _You can’t keep doing the same thing over and over again. That only tells people that you’re afraid to move up. Why do you think half the rogues in Gotham don’t give a fuck about Batman?” 

Bruce stiffened. In the back of Jason’s mind, he heard his own voice, smaller and more hopeful: _ be a better person. _ But he could not listen. He wasn’t like them. This type of thing, this _ evil, _ was the only thing he knew how to do right.

“We’ve got to be _serious,” _Jason continued. “Do what they do, what _Roman _does. You can’t look at this from your point-of-view and expect to be successful.”

_“Jason,”_ Dick said sharply, but Bruce cut him off.

“No one is going to die.”

_ Of fucking course. _“I didn’t say they would,” Jason replied sharply, but when he saw Dick’s stare the sharpness faded. A heaviness settled over his shoulders; his mouth went dry. 

Fuck. He had slipped up, let the Jason that Roman crafted rise through his cracks. Let the Voice take over again. True, he was not like the Bats, but he knew they did not hate him. They had only shown him kindness despite their doubts—which were more than well-deserved. Jason could at least show them the same.

“I mean,” he added in a softer voice, “very little has to change.”

Tim sent him an inquisitive look. “What _ are _you suggesting?” he asked. 

Jason stared at the floor, his mind racing to match words to the uneven thoughts in his head. “Unity,” he said. “Roman is dangerous because he’s on top of a network of unified gangs. They’re scared shitless by him, but that doesn’t mean they don’t see him as their boss.” 

Silence. Four pairs of eyes watched him, waiting for him to continue. Jason took a shaky breath. _Be a better person, _he thought again. Maybe it wasn’t too late. There was still time to come back, to prove to them that he was at least worthy of involvement on his own terms.

Swallowing the dryness in his mouth, he did as they asked. 

“I’ll take over the deal,” he said. “Get _ my _ men their weapons. Be a leader. Be _ better _than Roman.That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Them thinking I should be in charge of Gotham instead?”

“Brilliant,” Dick breathed. His face reddened at the word, as if embarrassed to have said it. 

“You might be on the right track,” Bruce began, “but I won’t allow those weapons to be distributed. It’s too dangerous.” 

Jason sighed, ran a hand through his hair. He refused to make eye contact with Dick. “I’ll do what Roman doesn’t,” he said. “The weapons don’t matter. Being on the front lines should be enough to convince them.”

Babs cocked her head. “Convince them of what?”

“That I’m ready for a fucking fight.” 

“I like it,” Dick said suddenly. “You’re right. Being at the front of the deal is an opportunity we can’t pass up.” 

Jason looked to him, trying to soften his face enough to convey regret despite the disquiet that still buzzed through him. _ I’m sorry I’m an asshole. _“Thank you.” 

“Always.” 

A familiar clench rolled through his gut. Jason turned away, stared at the metal lattice of the floor to avoid Dick’s kind gaze. _ Cut that shit out, _he reminded himself.

A long second passed before Tim cleared his throat. “You guys know how to use cryo capsules?” 

Dick blinked, then turned to raise an eyebrow at Tim. “We can use cryo capsules. I think the real question here is why you look like you took a boot to the face.” 

“It was an accident.”

“You need to sleep more.”

Shaking her head, Babs moved her chair to the other side of the desk, reaching over a stack of papers to retrieve two small objects the size of marbles. “Here,” she said, handing one to Dick and one to Jason. 

Jason looked at Bruce.

“New coms,” he explained gruffly. “These should be able to penetrate most electromagnetic insulators. Dick said there’d been an issue before.”

“It was nothing.” 

“I thought you died,” Dick said softly. “I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

Jason scoffed, but pocketed the com nonetheless. Remembering not to be an asshole, he turned to Babs and said, “Thanks.”

She grinned. “Hopefully his jokes won’t drive you crazy.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Tim added. 

Dick feigned indignation. _ “Excuse _ you?” he said. “I’m the first lieutenant to an up-and-coming crime lord. I would _ never.” _

“Work,” Jason said suddenly, not looking at the friendly smiles in front of him. He focused on Bruce instead, his half-passive expression, his stiff posture. “I’m going to need details. A way to stay in contact with the gang leaders.”

Bruce nodded. “I will have accounts made for you.”

“And new weapons. I’ve got the arsenal of a vigilante, not a leader.”

“Understood.”

“Thank you,” Jason replied, and turned to leave. Behind him, he could hear Dick calling. 

“Where are you going?”

He turned around for half a moment, only long enough to meet Dick’s dark blue irises before looking away. “I’m taking care of myself,” he muttered. “Didn’t get much sleep. I’ll be in the library, when you need me again.”

It was a partial truth. Jason did feel an oncoming exhaustion, and knew that it was wise to rest. But the full truth was this: the longer he stayed with the Bats, the more he understood that they were too good for him, the more he felt like a weight holding them back. 

He could not see himself ever fitting in. 

♟♟♟

The ship warehouse was clearly in its last months as a stable structure. It was empty, mostly, save for a few stacks of crates and tarps that clearly held nothing of importance, given their age and musty odor. One wall of the warehouse was open to the bay, and a large section of the floor had been removed so that ships could pull in without leaving the water—a garage, for a boat. The remaining three walls were gray, cracked wood, too weak to keep out the harsh winds from the bay, let alone support the heavy roof that groaned like a dying man. This, Jason figured, was probably why the scaffolding existed: _ something _had to hold it up. 

Sitting back against a crate, Jason crossed his arms, waiting. Dick stood next to him, wearing a simple face mask, a suit jacket and slacks. Beneath his jacket was a thin layer of kevlar, just enough to make Dick look brawnier than normal, but not quite enough to change his body type. 

When he realized he was staring, Jason looked out at the bay. In the distance, a small vessel approached slowly. “Any minute now,” he muttered. 

“Are your guys always this late?” Dick asked. 

Jason scoffed. 

“It was a joke.” 

“I know.” He paused, rubbing his wrist. “You know how to act?” 

Dick nodded. “Yep. Stand still and glower. Say nothing.” 

“Don’t forget to cross your arms over your chest.”

“You got it, Sir.” 

Beneath his mask, Jason chewed his lower lip. “Don’t call me that,” he muttered.

Dick nodded. “‘What should I call you?”

“‘Boss’ is fine.”

“You got it, Boss,” Dick said. Though most of his face was covered, the smile was audible in his voice, visible in the creases beside his eyes. 

Jason let a smile touch his lips, even though he knew Dick could not see. 

Dick continued. “You know, I think I like ‘boss’ better. It’s less kinky, but it’s more fun. I feel like I’m in the mafia.”

“Technically you’re not far off.”

“True.” He pretended to dab at his eyes, sniffing dramatically. _ “Little Jay’s all grown up and running an organized crime syndicate!” _

Jason rolled his eyes. “Oh god,” he groaned, just as a low rumble approached the other side of the warehouse. A truck. 

_ Good, _he thought. As fucked up as it was, he felt relief loosening the muscles of his upper back. Fighting was his comfort zone, not…whatever it was that was happening between them. 

He remained relaxed even as footsteps approached, even the doors flung open, even as a dozen cocked guns raised toward his face. Strange as it was, he felt a small sense of pride at their trigger discipline. Not a single one of them fired. Good for them. 

“Easy,” he growled, walking into the small rays of light that fell through the warehouse doors. In front of him stood a man he recognized as Jackson, who upon seeing his face slowly lowered his gun. He was dressed less like a dime-a-dozen grunt, and more like a man in charge. Sleek hair. Pressed suit. The square of a cigarette case bulging from his breast pocket. 

“Sir,” Jackson grumbled. 

Though he did not move, Jason could feel Dick prickling at the remark. God damn hero. Just because Jason had a preference didn’t mean he was gonna fall apart the moment someone didn’t abide by it. 

“You’re lucky,” Jason said. “Good control of your men. I like to see that.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Don’t be a kiss-ass.” He motioned to the incoming vessel. “You didn’t tell me you were receiving a shipment, Jackson.”

“It’s business as usual. Didn’t think you wanted to—”

Jason struck him across the face. Jackson stumbled backwards but did not fall, surprise written over his face. “That’s right,” he hissed. “You didn’t think. Do you think I wanted to hear from Lars over there—” He threw a thumb in Dick’s direction. “That my men were involved in a deal without me? I’m not some fucking bystander, got it?”

Jackson spit blood onto the concrete. “Got it,” he mumbled. 

“Good.” Jason straightened, eyed the boat. It was nearly at the warehouse now, only twenty or so feet from the wide opening. He could see a few figures moving over the deck, dark shadows against the white of the cabin. “Ready your men to take the cargo. I want to have a word with your contact.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

When he turned, Jason could feel Dick’s eyes sliding over his face. They remained passive, but there was a certain surprise contained within them. “You wanted to get to know me better,” he murmured, his voice hardly audible above the sound of rolling waves.

“Still waiting for an opportunity,” Dick replied. His voice was soft but clear, coming over the com rather than cutting through the air. 

A pause. “You don’t think this is the real me?” 

“Hell no, Jay.” 

His face flooded with warmth. Jason said nothing, merely moved to wait by the edge of the water that ran through the warehouse. _ And what if it is? _he wanted to ask, though as the thought passed through his head he knew it was not true. At least, not entirely. 

Dick followed him, standing silently at his side while the boat pulled up to the edge. In the thin rays of light cutting through the warehouse, the angles of his body appeared even more defined than usual. Cut shoulders. Strong neck. His slacks hugged his legs, revealing the muscular arch of his calves, the perfect curve of his thighs. 

_ Fuck, _Jason thought. 

The motor cut. At once he remembered where he was, and turned his gaze toward the people dropping ropes along the sides. They saw him standing there, but paid no attention. Good little soldiers. 

Finally, the boat was secured. A giant of a man stepped off the deck, eyed Jason once before saying in a heavy German accent, “Are you De Marco’s brat?” 

Jason forced himself to laugh cruelly. “De Marco’s out of the picture.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said. “I assume you have the money? Or should I just kill you and get this over with?”

“Big words for a guy with a tiny-ass boat.”

The click of a gun cocking. 

Jason raised his hands. “Easy now,” he said. Turning around, he barked, “Money!” 

There was shuffling. Footsteps. Jackson appeared over his shoulder, carrying a briefcase that he dropped at the man’s feet. 

The man grunted, keeping his gun trained on Jason as he opened the lock with his free hand. After seeing the bills stacked neatly inside, the gun lowered. “And you are?” he asked. 

“The name’s Red. This here is my lieutenant, Lars. And this—” He motioned to Jackson. “—this is who you need to worry about. Jackson’s your contact now.” 

“Huh.” The man looked them over, then held out a hand. “Latzke,” he said. “It is a pleasure to be meeting your acquaintance.”

His hand was cool. “Pleasure’s all mine,” Jason replied. He nodded toward the two large crates on the deck of the boat. “Those are ours?” 

Latzke nodded. “_ Hol die verdammte Ladung _,” he shouted to the figures on the boat, who wasted no time in transporting the crates into the warehouse, grunting as they lifted them over the edge of the boat. 

“Inspect it,” Jason said to Dick. 

Dick nodded. There they were again: those slight wrinkles around his eyes that told Jason he was smiling. It would have been imperceptible to someone who did not know him. But to Jason… 

_ Not now, fuckhead, _ Jason thought, fighting to keep a straight face. Did he think this was a game? Jesus Christ. Of all the times to pull that stupid smile. Just drop the cryo capsules in the case, and wait for Roman’s grunts to try and take it. Then, activate the capsules, let the acid to its work, and Jackson would leave, none the wiser. It was easy, but it wasn’t a _ joke. _

The lid of the first crate clattered to the floor. Wordlessly Dick sifted through the neatly-lain weapons, holding one up, flipping another over. To his credit, he made the silent shtick work. After a moment, he nodded, replaced the lid, and moved to the other crate. Jason hadn’t even seen him retrieve the capsules from his pocket. 

Then it was done. This part, at least. 

“All good,” Dick grumbled. His voice was low, no longer the clear and cheery as it always was. It took Jason a moment to realize it was his turn to speak. 

“Excellent,” he said to Latzke. He gave the dealer a polite nod of the head. “Stay in contact with Jackson here. We’ll want to be doing business in the future.”

Latzke smirked. “Indeed. Are we done here?” 

“Don’t know.” Jason faced Jackson, though he cast his eyes to the space around him, looking for the flicker of a shadow, a loose beam of light, anything to signal the arrival of Roman’s men. “Are we good, Jackson?”

“Weapons look good to me, Sir,” he replied. 

“So why are you standing there?” 

Jackson blinked once, then whistled sharply. Six men approached and proceeded to carry the crates toward the entrance of the warehouse. When Jason turned around, he saw Latzke already back on the boat, which was pulling back out onto the waves. The man nodded at him, though there was something _ off _about his face. Something too knowing. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light, though Jason could not help but feel the tingle of adrenaline along his forearms. 

“Careful,” he muttered, quiet enough so that only Dick could hear him through his com. He watched Latzke a second longer, waiting, waiting. His heart began to flutter higher in his chest, heralding the sick anticipation that always arose before a fight he did not orchestrate. 

God, did he miss it. 

_ Come on, you son of a bitch, _he thought, scanning the warehouse, outside the warehouse. The six men were still moving the crate, grunting as they struggled with the unwieldy containers. More were waiting by the entrance, guns ready, and more still were likely outside in and around the truck. Jason could still hear the rumble of the engine, just barely, over the rush of waves. 

Dick’s voice came softly in his ear. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Nothing yet.”

“I’ve got my eyes open.” 

Jason, knowing Dick’s eyes were on him, gave a slight nod of his head. _ Come on, _ he thought again, clenching and unclenching his fists. Men carrying the crate. Men with guns. A woman with a gun. The rumbling truck. His arms tingled. _ Fight or flight, fight or flight… _

“Sir?” Jackson was saying behind him.

He grunted. _ Fight or flight. _

“About the deal—” 

“Tell me next time,” Jason said sharply. A shadow ran across the wall of the warehouse. A man? No, just a shadow… 

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. 

“You know a guy named Jared Cross?”

Jackson pulled a face that was answer enough.

“You’re working together, now. Coordinate deals with him.”

“Together?”

“Fuck,” Jason swore, but not at Jackson. _ It’s coming. It’s coming. It’s coming. _ “I mean, _ fuck,” _ he said again. “This isn’t fucking high school. You two _ will _ get along, or I’ll find someone who—” 

Something hot and wet splattered over his face. Jason blinked. The taste of blood filled his mouth. His ear buzzed, then stung. 

In front of him Jackson stood with a gaping jaw. Red was slowly spilling over the front of his jacket. 

A voice ripped through the warehouse. _ “Everybody get down!” _it cried, and as a pair of arms wrapped around his waist Jason realized with a start that the voice belonged to Dick. 

The two of them hit the ground. Jason grunted. There was another, wetter thud as Jackson’s body followed close behind. His eyes were glassy, stuck open in a permanent fear. 

Another shot. Jason could hear it now, the low _ zip _of a silenced bullet. Another. Another. Across the warehouse, three bodies fell. It wasn’t the soft thud of someone diving to the ground, but a wet, hard smack. 

Then, the shouting started. 

_ “Fuck!” _someone screamed. The rest of them, Jason could not make out. An automatic fired several rounds into shadow. One of Jackson’s men—former men?—fired out onto the bay. More screams. 

Above him, Dick’s voice: “On the water.”

He was right: a motor boat was pulling into the warehouse. Jason could tell from the growl of the engine, the sharp smell of gasoline. Fuck. 

Scrambling to his feet, Jason ducked behind an old crate just as bullets began to chip the ground at his feet. Dick followed, shedding his jacket to reveal his kevlar armor. The warehouse lit up with the flash of gunfire. 

“Ready?” Dick asked.

“Go,” Jason said, and ran. 

Roman’s men had already begun to disembark from the boat. The closest hardly had time to notice Jason before he twisted the gun from the man’s arm and drove his knee into his gut. A grunt. One more kick, and the man tumbled back into the water. For half a second, Jason eyed the gun in his hands before it too went into the bay. 

_ Not while Dick’s here. _

A handgun cocking. Jason whipped around and dove into the man’s—woman’s—legs, knocking her to the ground. One punch. Two punches. She spat; more blood splattered across his face. A third punch, and she was still. 

On the ground before him: Jackson’s still-bleeding body. 

The hole in his back was gaping, spitting out blood like water from a drainage pipe. _ A sniper rifle _, he realized, and brought a hand to his ear. His glove came back wet with blood. 

Fuck. Whoever shot Jackson, they knew what they were doing. 

_ Don’t panic. Panic will kill you. Kill both of you. _

There was a sudden, painful pressure in his back as a bullet hit his body armor. Without another thought Jason charged for the source, driving his elbow into the nose of the shooter. The man’s gun fired carelessly into the air. Bullets sparked off the scaffolding.

The roof began to groan. 

“Get out of here!” Jason shouted to the men clustered around the crates, but as he spoke more of them were pouring through the open doors. _ God damn it. _

Dick’s voice: “I’ll get them out.” 

“The capsules,” Jason hissed, dodging a knife. He kicked, missed. When the man swung again, the blade caught him on the upper arm. Jason could tell from the sting that the cut was long, but shallow. 

“Now?”

Jason grabbed his own knife from his belt, countered the man’s incoming swing. _ “Yes.” _

“Got it.”

Dodge. Swing. Block. Jason thrust the knife into the man’s left shoulder, ripping it down through muscle and tendon. His scream joined the others already hanging in the air. 

And then the first crate did what it wasn’t supposed to. It blew. 

The shockwave knocked him off his feet, sending him flying backwards into one of the rotting walls. Wood splintered. Crackled. Jason threw an arm over his face to protect him from the sudden light, the painful yellow flames that licked the walls, the doors. It was only a few seconds before thick black smoke began to fill his lungs. 

_ Dick, _he thought. Where was Dick? He could hardly see through the light, the smoke. Could hardly speak. Blood dripped from his temple into his eyes, down his jaw. 

_ Dick. _

Pushing himself up, he ran toward the source of the flames, through limp, burning bodies strewn left and right. _ Dick. _ The roof was screaming louder than the gangsters. Gunfire. He threw a punch, shouted again for everyone to get out. _ Dick. _A bullet struck the armor of his right shoulder. He stumbled, though not before he thought he caught a flash of blue eyes—

A second explosion. Through his racing thoughts he found enough sense to cover his head as he hit the ground. A good thing, too. Old, burning wood and shingles fell around him as the roof began to give way. Not all at once, but in pieces: a beam here, a section there. Sweat rolled down Jason’s forehead, mixing with the blood already gathered at his temples. 

_ Dick. _

Every muscle in his body screamed. Still he pushed his hands against the floor, grounded his feet, and rose, coming face-to-face with a mask like smoke and flame. 

Slade Wilson. 

“You’re real clever, kid,” Deathstroke said, strapping his rifle over his back. “I’ll give you that.” 

Jason growled. His fingers inched toward his knife, only to find his sheath empty. It must have been lost in the explosion. 

A ballistic staff suddenly appeared in his vision. “Careful,” Deathstroke chuckled. 

“Where is he?” Jason hissed.

“Roman? Don’t know. Don’t care.” The mercenary cocked his head. He appeared to be smiling. “Unless you’re not talking about Roman.” 

Jason held his tongue. An oppressive heat blurred his vision. Somewhere, more of the roof collapsed into the water. 

“Hmm. Interesting,” Deathstroke drew a throwing knife from his belt. “Don’t move,” he said, and hurled the knife somewhere Jason could not see. 

Something moved. Dick. 

He charged from a pile of rubble, ducking under the swing of Deathstroke’s ballistic staff before—Jason could not tell. It was a flurry of movement. Black. White. Orange. Someone took a hit. Deathstroke? No, Dick. He bled from a wound to his side.

And Jason was just standing there.

Snarling, he rushed Deathstroke, dodged a blast from his staff, threw his fist into the mercenary’s jaw. Flames licked his neck. Metal sliced through air; he ducked, swept his leg beneath Deathstroke. Dodged, easily. 

“Watch out!” someone cried. Dick.

Jason rolled to the side just as a knife fell to his position. Pain tore through his upper arm, settling deep inside the muscle. “Shit!” he hissed. He had landed on burning rubble.

Black. White. Orange. There was the sound of metal striking flesh, and then the scene came into focus: 

Dick, on the ground, bleeding. Deathstroke stood over him, holding the blade of his katana against Dick’s throat. 

“Good lieutenant you got here,” the mercenary said.

Jason tried to move, but halted when he saw the blade move closer to Dick’s neck. 

“Let’s see who’s under there, huh?” With a flick of his katana Deathstroke lifted the mask, revealing Dick’s bruised and bloodied face. “Hmm. Figured you weren’t dead. You’re too stubborn to die.” 

Dick’s lip curled into a sneer. “I won’t let you take him,” he snarled. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. Contract’s changed.”

“What does Roman want?” Jason demanded. He stood; stopped again when the katana pressed against Dick’s adam’s apple. 

“I don’t give a shit,” Deathstroke said. He dragged the blade up Dick’s neck and over his face, caressing the slight curve of his cheek. The blade pressed deeper. Dick hissed. “All I know is that he wants me to give you a message.”

“Could’ve sent an email,” Dick said, leaning away from the katana.

The mercenary chuckled. “Right,” he said. “He figured you two would be working together. Said his boy was a whore for pretty faces.” 

Beads of sweat dripped into Jason’s eyes. “What does Roman want?” he hissed. 

Deathstroke’s eye narrowed. “The one with money is the one who rules the board. He’s always going to be one step ahead of you, because he can see your moves before you play them. And when he’s bored of playing—” The katana cut into Dick’s skin, drawing blood. Dick grit his teeth but made no sound. “—game over.” 

A piece of the wall collapsed into the water. The whole building seemed to be swaying, as if dancing to some inaudible rhythm.

“If you’re gonna kill us,” Jason said, “do it now.”

The blade sung as Deathstroke slid it back into its sheath. “Wish I could. But that’s not in the contract.” 

“Then what is?” 

“This.” 

There was a sound of wind rushing in his ears. A body hitting cement. White-hot pain shot through his limbs, his back, and he realized that it was him who had fallen, that it was _ him _ who was on the floor, writhing and seizing as electricity coursed through him. His mouth filled with blood. He could not see. And the pain, and the _ pain, _and the smoke, and the sound of something breaking—

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then he was back to himself, or halfway there, and the world was in shambles around him. A beam had fallen over his legs, burning as it pressed him into the hard cement. “Stay awake for me,” someone was saying softly. “Jay, I need you to stay awake. Stay awake for me, _ please. _”

_ Who? _

_ “Please. _ Oh, god. Fuck. _ Please _stay awake.”

“Dick?” he muttered. His world was smoke; he could taste nothing but the swirling black, see nothing but a flash of blue above his head.

“Jay. Oh, god. Stay awake. Don’t move.”

The pressure on his legs released. He gasped at the feeling, then bucked in pain from the sudden movement. 

“Shit,” Dick whispered. He seemed to be crouched over Jason’s leg, then his torso, then his face. “You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

God, he was so beautiful. Jason ached to—did he?—but he couldn’t—

“No’ good enough,” he muttered. 

Dick paused. “What?”

“No—Not good enough. Bad idea.” He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. What was he doing on the ground? Why was everything on fire?

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Dick said. “Can you walk?”

Because he’s a burden, right? He’s always a burden. “Don’ help me. Don’ deserve me.”

“Jason.”

“Bad idea.”

“Jay, we have to get you out of here. Come on.” 

Strong arms slipped beneath his arms, lifted him to a standing position. His legs buckled, but the arms held tight. _ Fuck, _they were good arms. Warm arms. Good, warm, body. Perfect. Kind. Too good. 

He didn’t know how long he was walking, or where they were, but he did know he could no longer taste only smoke. Salt. Wet. _ The docks, _ he remembered. _ They were at the docks. _

Good, warm hands lowered him into a seated position, tilted his head to rest against something soft. “B is coming,” someone whispered. Who? Right. Dick. Dick was whispering. And he was whispering again: 

“What can I do?”

Jason blinked until he could see the face in front of him. Jaw. Cheekbones. Eyes. Lips parted in concern. What could he do? What did Jason want? He could think of nothing but a shoulder against his ear, a warm body pressed next to his—

“It’s a bad idea,” he mumbled.

Dick blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I want to…” Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them. In the distance, sirens. Was there a fire? His face was burning. “I want to…”

“What do you want, Jay?” Dick asked softly. 

What did he want? What did he want? Jason wanted not to be in pain. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be held. And more than anything, he wanted _ him. _

With his last ounce of energy, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Dick’s. Then the world started spinning and he fell into unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))
> 
> ** [Balloonacy's Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224140)**   
** [Reggie's Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377389/chapters/58359061)**
> 
> (also my own **[far inferior art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158431/chapters/58174987)**, if you're interested.)


	21. Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I posted the last chapter when the weird email thing was going on: make sure you've read the chapter with the big fire before reading this one. That is all. 
> 
> A special thanks to Epistemology for helping me out with his chapter, and AK for giving me pointers with Dick's POV. Y'all rock. (I'm also in the process of editing earlier chapters so Dick is more in-line with his canon depiction, because I definitely fucked up his characterization big time. Rest assured it will get better from here on out.)
> 
> Also **[Reggie made some fucking fantastic art!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24379363/chapters/58800766)** It is fueling my angst-driven soul. Love ya, Reg.
> 
> Now, back to our regular scheduled programming. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** blood, vomit

The smoke rose ever-higher into the sky, twisting and writhing in a pillar of orange and gray. And the sirens, and the heat—even at one hundred meters, Dick felt the kiss of flames along his neck. Across his cheeks. On the chapped skin of his lips, where Jason had kissed him.

Kissed him.

_ Kissed _him. 

Dick fought to balance Jason’s unconscious body against his shoulder as he stumbled over the cracked cement. By his shoulder, Jason’s head hung limply. The upper half of his face was covered in soot and blood and grime, while everything from the nose down had been covered by his mask. That is, until Dick took it off. And Jason kissed him. 

Far behind them, a low whine preceded the boom of the warehouse’s final collapse. The night lit up red and yellow, casting harsh shadows over their faces. Stars, sparks. Dick could no longer tell the difference between them. 

_ Keep moving. Get the hell out of here. Don’t think about what he did. Two hundred yards to safety. _

Holding tight to Jason’s arm, his waist, Dick pushed forward, grunting under the weight. Sweat dripped into his eyes; he blinked rapidly until his vision cleared. 

_ Tight grip. Don’t let go. My fault. Around the shipping container. One hundred fifty yards. _

Dead weight—no, not dead, _ unconscious _ weight—feels heavier than it should. One pound becomes two, two pounds become five, two hundred pounds are nearly impossible. His arms strained to keep Jason upright, his thighs screamed as they pushed forward, foot by foot by foot. _ One-twenty. _The healed bones in his arm felt as though they were stretching, twisting, crunching, one pound shy of falling apart again. And there was the other heaviness, too, the one that spun inside him and drew his heart toward the earth. 

_ One hundred yards. Don’t let go. Hold on tight. Don’t think about it. Get out get out get out. _

Jason's head rolled. His hair, slick with blood, fluttered in the waves of heat and saltwater. He groaned, softly, or maybe that was the fire playing tricks on his hears. Because Jason wasn’t moving, wasn’t moving, only dead weight—

“Come on, Jay,” Dick said, his voice straining into a plea. He couldn’t die. Not now. Not after—and they were almost out—Dick could see the lights of the East End glittering in the distance—smell the funk of dirtied streets—taste blood in the air—

It was dripping over his hand, Jason’s blood. Slick and syrupy. Almost as hot as the fire itself. Catching in the fabric between his fingers. Soaking. Rolling down his knuckles. _ Get out. _Not a waterfall, but a steady trickle. From Jason’s shoulder—his arm?—the gap between the kevlar, somewhere. Or maybe it wasn’t even Jason’s blood. Maybe it was his own. Was it? 

The sirens were closer. At least two trucks, probably more. And then the cops. 

_ Fifty yards. Have to make it. Have to make it because it’s my fault. _

Blood was beginning to harden on his cheeks. The cut left by Slade’s sword stung in the salty wind and his side felt like it had been run over by a freight train. _ Get out. _Red and Blue in the air. His foot slipped into a rift in the concrete; he caught himself at the last minute. Jason’s head swung limply. His lips parted. There was blood on his teeth. 

_ Ten yards. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about what he did. Just get out. _

There was a building across the street. Clearly abandoned. Wooden planks over the windows, trash in a heap on the front steps. A fenced-in yard with weeds so tall they seemed to kiss the sky. Dick limped toward it, his feet dragging almost as badly as Jason’s. On the sidewalk. Blood in his mouth. Up the steps. His shoulders screamed as he slowed and Jason’s full weight fell into him. A few more seconds. A few more seconds. 

Pushing open the gate to the yard, Dick stumbled forward and fell to his knees, grunting as Jason’s weight followed behind. Both of them hit the dirt at the same time. Dust filled his lungs. There was a whine, then a click, as the gate fell closed behind them. 

Safe. 

Dick rolled over onto his back and stared up at the night sky, gasping for breath. The clouds above were browned with smoke and flame, too bright. What weak stars he could see blinked slowly. For half a moment felt himself doing the same, staring and blinking and breathing, letting blood make rubies on the ground. In the distance, sirens wailed. Then there was a noise next to him, the soft exhale of breath, he remembered: _ Jason. _

He cursed beneath his breath, flipping onto his knees to survey the damage. Bleeding ear. Bleeding shoulder. Pants burned away at his right thigh, revealing stark red and puckering skin. A starburst on his neck where Slade had driven his staff and released a surge of electricity. Dick let out a ragged breath as he saw that none of it was bad. Well. It was _ bad, _but not life-threatening. Nothing either of them had not experienced before. 

_ Right. _A concussion would explain why he...did that. 

“Jay,” Dick said. He placed his hand on his good shoulder, squeezed gently. “Jason, we’re out.” 

He swore as he thought about his com, still working thanks to the new tech Babs had integrated. Bruce was a call away. It would be so easy to patch in, let him know where they are and where they needed to go. And the script was already written: _ Bruce, I fucked up again. Come save me. _

No. Not this time. 

“I need you to wake up,” Dick said. “We have to get you to the clinic.”

Nothing. _ A concussion, _he reminded himself, but the thought did little good. Something seized in his chest, then bounced frantically around his ribcage. 

“Jason,” Dick said again. A desperate whisper. “Jay, come on. Come on. Wake up.”

He didn’t move. 

_ No, _ Dick thought. In a fluid motion he ripped off a glove and moved his hand to Jason’s face, searching for breath, for life. _ No, _ he thought again, even though he _ knew _Jason was fine. Just a concussion. And burns. And more. And Dick was bleeding too; like the newly bereaved the wound to his side wept without rest.

Once Jason awoke they could get to Leslie. They’d be fine. They’d be fine. And then they’d move on. 

_ Don’t you fucking die. Not now. Not after. Not when it will be my fault. _

“Come on,” Dick whispered. A drop of blood fell from his chin onto Jason’s face. “Come on. _ Please.” _

Jason’s eyes fluttered behind their lids. 

“That’s it,” he breathed. He felt his shoulders soften, felt the tightness in his chest give way. “That’s it. Come back.” 

Jason groaned. His left hand twitched. His brow furrowed in pain. 

“You’re okay,” Dick said again, though he wondered who it was he was really speaking for. Both of them, he decided. That was how it had to be. They would both be okay. And then… Then what? He cast his eyes down to Jason’s face, watched the consciousness, the agency, return to it. Eye twitching. Cheeks shuddering with his breath. Mouth parted slightly, just as it had right before he _ kissed _him. 

Dick swallowed. His tongue was dry and rough as desert rock. He knew that Jason was not in his right mind—the rambling, the blood—and it was foolish to think otherwise. It didn’t matter what others thought of him; Dick was more than a birdbrain with a pretty face. He knew. He _ knew. _

And yet there was a part of him that wanted to pretend he didn’t. 

“You’re okay,” he said for the third time, as soon he saw the sea-green of Jason’s irises. There was a moment. Another. 

Jason opened and closed his eyes, as if to reset himself in reality. His hand rose, slowly and shakily, to touch his neck. He winced as his fingers grazed the burn from Deathstroke’s staff. The fingers pushed back. Behind his ear, into his hair. They came back damp with blood. 

“You hit your head,” Dick explained. “And there’s burns. More.” 

“More?” His voice was cracked, sandy. 

“You’re bleeding,” Dick said, but what he meant was, _ you kissed me. _

Jason blinked up at him, then closed his eyes. Dick’s pulse quickened—“Don’t fall asleep,” he almost said”—but then they were open again, and he could breathe. The air tasted like smoke. 

“Where?” Jason mumbled.

“We’re in the East End.”

Another moment passed. Jason clawed at the ground, turning up pebbles and lumps of dirt. His fingernails came back tipped with dark crescents. “You’re...bleeding.” 

Dick looked down at his side. Blood still oozed from the wound in his side, though it had slowed to a gentle crawl toward his hip. A dark red stain spread from his armpit toward his chest, and down to his navel. “Worse than it looks,” he said. 

“Face?”

“It’ll heal.” 

Jason tapped a finger against his cheekbone. The cut De Marco had given him was nearly gone, only a pale white line beneath his eye. “We’re matching now.”

“Yeah, but I wear it better,” Dick replied. 

Jason took a long, deep breath and released it slowly. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rolled himself over onto his stomach, then pushed himself up onto all fours. And he stayed there, limbs stiff and eyes wide, staring at the dirt beneath his knees. 

“Tell me you can stand,” Dick said. _ Tell me why you kissed me. Tell me. You meant it. _

He said nothing. His forearms began to tremble. “I…” he began. His jaw tensed. His lips pressed themselves shut. 

“Jay?”

A long moment passed. “Okay,” Jason said suddenly, finishing the climb to his feet. He swayed, as if caught in a large gust of wind, and nearly fell before Dick rose to catch him. 

“Slowly,” he said, for both their sakes. His arm strained to hold Jason up; he’d pushed himself enough with the Titans to know that carrying Jason any further would result in something torn, or worse. And yet, Dick didn’t move. He just stood there, bearing Jason’s weight on his shoulder, looking up at his face and remembering how their lips felt when they met. Chapped, warm, dirtied with blood and dust. It was just a moment. Not even a second. Not even half a second.

But it was enough. 

Dick stared into Jason’s face, searching for...something. Some sign that Jason had not forgotten. Some glimmer of memory behind his pupils. Did Jason still want to kiss him? Maybe? His lips were parted and quivering slightly; his eyes were too wide fixated on the dirt. It looked as if he were...as if he were about to… 

Oh, hell. 

He stepped back just as Jason bent over and started heaving. Once, twice. The waves of nausea were visible in his body: a tremble that rolled from his lower back to his shoulders. Dick averted his eyes and waited. If he were a better person, he would be trying to help Jason, holding him upright and brushing the hair from his face. But he couldn’t. He could only look at Jason and think, _ how could you do this to me? _

After a moment, the meaty sounds began to fade. A siren wailed down the street, and for the briefest of moments they were washed in red and blue. Then, nothing. Jason spat into the dirt and groaned, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head droop toward the earth.

“That looked like it hurt,” Dick said at last.

Jason held out a thumbs-up and spat again. “Clinic,” he mumbled.

“Yep.”

“I can make it.”

“Right,” Dick said. He couldn’t call Bruce, couldn’t let him know that he had failed _ again _ and needed Batman to swoop in and save the day. Not again. He was better than this. _ Stronger _than this.

Wasn't he?

They walked slowly toward the clinic, sticking to the shadows to hide from cruisers and prying eyes. Dick kept waiting for Jason to say something in his stunted, gruff way of speaking, but with each passing the moment the possibility of conversation grew smaller and smaller until he could no longer see it happening at all. So that was it, then? Nothing? It was over?

_ Focus, _he told himself, feeling a rivulet of blood trickle down the side of his thigh. Get them to the clinic. Fix them up. That was all that mattered. 

Jason watched his feet as he limped over the ground, only looking up when he needed to steady himself on a wall or heave into the bushes. When a harsh wind blew between them, Jason hissed, placing a hand by the burn on his thigh.

“I'm fine,” he grunted, when Dick tried to help him.

“Yeah, and I’m Wonder Woman,” Dick replied.

“Your arm.”

“I can take it.”

Jason straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Like hell you can. Fucking heroes."

Dick stiffened, swallowing the outburst in his throat. _ After all we've been through together... _“Whatever,” he snapped, moving on. “Have it your way. You'll be dead by the time we get to the clinic.”

_ God damn it. You just can’t control your tongue, can you? _

Behind him, he could hear Jason muttering into the wind. “That's fine by me.”

Dick clenched his fists and hoped that Jason could not see. _ Maybe it's not about you, _ he wanted to say. _ Maybe this is for me. _ But then again he knew he couldn't say that, because Jason hadn't been in his right mind. Still wasn't. Who knew what he remembered? Dick couldn’t be angry at Jason, he _ couldn’t, _ because it _ wasn’t his fault. _

The back door of the clinic was open as it always was. Dick marched through the empty hall, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright, flickering fluorescents. This was one of those moments where Bruce would have told him to be smart and hide his face. But Bruce wasn’t here. They didn’t need Bruce. 

“We need to see Doctor Thompkins,” Dick told the first nurse he found. Her mouth opened to reply; he cut her off. _ “Now. _Page her here. She’ll take us.”

The woman blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said, “But—”

_ “Now!” _ he snapped, slamming a bloodied hand on the desk. Over his shoulder, Jason made a sound caught between a gasp and scoff. Dick didn’t look to see where his face fell on the spectrum of surprise. “He’s got a bad concussion. Burns. Do you know how long it took us to get here? _ Page Doctor Thompkins.” _

Five minutes later, he was standing in a darkened hospital room, pressing a gauze pad to his side as he watched Leslie cutting the fabric away from Jason’s leg. 

“Are you going to run away again?” she asked.

Dick shook his head. “No.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“You should have been. I’m the one who broke him out.”

Leslie let out a deep, slow breath. “And look where that led,” she said.

Dick bit his tongue until his teeth threatened to pierce through. He pressed the gauze into his side, feeling the wet heat of blood soak through the top layer of the material. He pressed harder. In front of him, Leslie cut away the last bit of fabric around Jason’s thigh, exposing raw and charred skin that oozed a clear pink fluid. 

“I’m assuming you couldn’t wash it in water,” she said. 

Jason shook his head but said nothing.

Placing her gloved hand gently on the burn—Jason let out a cry that fell to a hiss, a sound that made Dick’s stomach drop to his toes—Leslie waited, then nodded. “I’m going to get you a wet washcloth,” she said, removing her hand. “The area is still warm. We want to stop the burn from going deeper into the tissue.”

“I’ve been burned before,” Jason said.

“Then you should have known to rinse it right away,” Leslie replied. She looked right at Dick as she spoke, as if he too were at fault—which he was. 

“We came as fast as we could,” Dick said. 

“Hmm. Wait here. I’ll be back.” Her coat swept in her wake as she walked from the room, closing the door behind her. Silence followed. 

Jason stared at the wound in his leg, as if taking it in for the first time. Beside him, his body armor rested in a heap on a chair. Without it, he looked smaller, weaker. His whole right arm was stained brown with blood. 

Licking his lips, Dick asked, “Are you okay?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Jason replied.

“But I asked you first.”

Jason hummed, biting his lip as he touched the skin next to the burn. A wince. “Not quite third degree,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“And your head?” 

“Hurts like a bitch.”

Dick chewed his lower lip, pressing the gauze pad harder against his side. Every part of him wanted to ask him _ the _ question—_do you remember kissing me?—_but after all these years he knew it was unwise to show all his cards at once. Only a shit detective messed up like that. 

So, instead, he said this:

“What do you remember?” 

Jason began to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. Fresh blood dripped from the deep cut along his bicep, following the groove of his arm toward his wrist. He did not look at Dick. “Deathstroke,” he said. “The fire. Blacked out for a bit. Then…” 

Dick bit back a scream. _ Then? Then? _

The door opened. Leslie walked back in, pushing a cart of supplies. “Here,” she said, draping a wet cloth over Jason’s legs. He shuddered as the fabric kissed his skin, then grit his teeth and lay back against the bed. After a moment, his breath slowed. 

“Better,” he mumbled. 

“Good.” Leslie extended an ice pack. “Put this behind your head. Dick, take off your shirt.” 

When Dick looked up, he realized he had been grinding his teeth. Swallowing, he unbuttoned his dress shirt and pulled off the kevlar under armor, allowing her access to the wound on his side. He flinched as the needle punctured his skin, but forced himself to still as much as he could. Across the room, Jason's eyes were closed, his lips parted. It took Dick only a moment to lose his conscious self to fantasies: tracing Jason’s lips with his own; leaving kisses on his neck, his jaw, his temple; pressing his open mouth to every curve he could find. In his mind their limbs were a tangle and they were breathing the same oxygen, holding, holding, releasing only to whisper promises they knew they could not keep. 

“Done,” Leslie said, but not to him. 

Dick blinked. A white bandage stretched across his side, and judging from the slight tug beneath his cheekbone, another had been placed over the cut Slade had left. Jason’s leg and arm were wrapped tightly in petrolatum gauze, and his neck, uncovered, shimmered beneath an ointment of some kind. His eyes were fixed on Dick’s side. But when he caught Dick looking, he quickly turned away. 

“Do I want to know what happened?” Leslie asked.

“I’m sure you’ll read about it in the paper tomorrow,” Dick replied. 

“Oh dear.”

“Yep.”

“Does _ he _know?” 

“Not yet.”

“I see.” Leslie pursed her lips, then sighed deeply. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “Both of you. I don’t want to see you in here for another three months.”

Dick raised an eyebrow and grinned. “How about two?”

_ “Three,” _she said again. “Please use the door when you leave. The other patients don’t like it when strangers climb down their windows.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

Nodding once, Leslie gave them each a professional smile and walked out, taking a cart full of bloodied gauze and equipment. The door shut with a quiet click. Down the hallway: footsteps. Overhead: the intimate buzz of lightbulbs. On the street: sirens; tires screeching. 

Slowly, like a child testing the temperature of ocean waves, Jason traced a finger over his bandages and stared at the cracks in the tile floor. Dick waited. And waited. And waited. 

♟♟♟

Dick woke in someone else’s apartment. He blinked lazily, letting consciousness swim back through his limbs, before the pain all but forced him upright. 

The deal—the fire—the kiss—_Jason. _

He flew to his feet, steadying himself against the arm of the sofa as the world spun and darkened before him. Sore arm. Sore head. Throbbing side. Neck stinging where the flames had come too close. His fingers dug into the fabric as he gulped down air—cool, clean air, not on fire. Breathe. Breathe. Come back. 

The seconds crawled by, each slower than the last. It was a minute, an hour before he could see again. And even then his sight came back piece by piece. His clothes were too big. Jason’s clothes. Jason’s bookshelves. Jason’s books. Jason’s bedroom door, wide open. Jason’s bed, empty. 

Shit. 

“Jason?” Dick called, more urgently than he meant to. Rooms: empty. Drawers: open. _ No, _ he thought, unable to think anything else. _ No, no, no, no— _

“I’m here.” 

The voice came from the balcony. Relief fell through his body like rain, washing away the tight heat that had left him gasping. Dick could see now, _ really _see, with a clarity to make Bruce proud. 

The door, a hair’s width open. Fingerprints on the handle. A shadow, stretching across the concrete.

Right.

Pushing his hair back, Dick made his way outside. The morning—mid-morning? late morning?—was a far cry from the night before, in color and temperature and composition. Cool. Blue. Clean. Jason, dressed in sweats and a tee shirt, leaned over the railing and stared out over Gotham. In his hand: a glass of clear liquid.

“Water,” Jason said, when he saw Dick’s stare. “Calm your tits.”

“Can you blame me for assuming?”

“No. I deserve it.” 

Dick said nothing. He stared at the place where Jason’s hand met the iron railing, his whole body aching to take the place of the metal. _ You kissed me, _ he wanted to say. _ Do you know how long I’ve wanted you too? _

How many times had he dreamt of Jason kissing him? Dozens of times? More? First at the gala, when Jason was just a beautiful face in the crowd, and then again and again and again, each time with more _ need _ than the last. And he wanted to believe that Jason needed him too, wanted and ached and craved with every last ounce of his heart. It had to be more than a delirious mistake. It _ had _to be. 

And if that’s all it was…Dick didn’t know what he would do. 

He swallowed, casting his eyes toward the street below them. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Are you.”

“No,” Jason said. He pulled something from his pocket—a bottle of Tylenol—and tossed two capsules into his mouth, chasing them with a sip of water. Sighing deeply, he extended both the glass and the meds to Dick. Not once did he look at him. 

Dick accepted the offering, washing down the pills with the rest of the water. “And your memory?” he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 

Jason shrugged.

“Do you remember me waking you up?”

“Yeah.”

“What about before that?”

He scoffed. “I was unconscious, Dickhead. There was no ‘before that.’”

Dick’s heart sunk to the bottom of his ribcage. “You’re sure?” he asked, leaning toward him. “You really don’t remember _ anything?” _

Silence. 

_ God damn it, _ Dick thought. _ God fucking damn it. _

He inhaled. Exhaled. Stared at the small cuts along his knuckles, tiny red lines that wove between bruises. “There’s something you should know,” he began quietly. “At the warehouse, you… you kissed me.”

Jason’s body went rigid. That was enough. 

“Wait. You—you remember?” 

Nothing. 

“You _ remember?” _ Dick said again. At once the anxiety fled from his body. In its place, a parade of emotion. Relief. Surprise. Confusion. Irritation. _ Rage. _ “You _ knew? _ This whole time, you _ knew?” _

“I didn’t—”

“Were you trying to _ ignore _it?” 

Jason squeezed the railing until his wrists began to tremble. “Inside,” he muttered, and ducked back into the apartment. Dick stormed after him. 

_ Don’t yell don’t yell don’t yell don’t— _

“What the _ fuck?” _ he asked. _ Dammit. _“Why would you do that? Why pretend?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t—” Dick grit his teeth and pushed his hands through his hair, struggling to control his breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. “Tell me the truth. Please.”

He seemed to think for a moment, which only made it worse. _ Spit it out, _Dick thought. It was a fucking limbo, the unknown. Was Jason embarrassed? Ashamed? Afraid? Or was it something worse? Like a chisel against marble the seconds chipped away at Dick’s already-weakened composure. Weaker, weaker… 

_ Spit it out spit it out spit it out— _

“It was a mistake,” Jason said at last. 

Something deep inside him cracked. “What kind of mistake?” Dick asked. 

“I wasn’t thinking right.”

“Really.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

_ “You’re lying.” _

That voice—it was pained, desperate. The sound of hope shattering. It was his voice, it _ had _to be, and yet Dick wanted to believe it wasn’t. 

Swallowing, he tried again. “I don’t believe you.”

Jason stared at the carpet, rubbing the scar along his forearm. 

“You don’t just _ kiss _someone by mistake. What aren’t you telling me?”

Nothing. Nothing. _ Nothing. _

“God _ damn _ it!” Dick hissed, slamming his fist against the wall. He didn’t care when Jason flinched. “I am so _ fucking _sick of this.”

Jason blinked. “It was a mistake,” he said again, and that’s what did it.

Dick exploded.

“All I’ve _ ever _ been is nice to you!” he shouted. Voice hot. Head hot. Chest hot. Everything hot and red and _ dripping. _ “From the first moment, I was rooting for you. _ Fighting _ for you! And every time you treated me like shit—every _ single _time—I told myself that it wasn’t your fucking fault. That it was how you were taught to act. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe that’s who you are.” 

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Jason demanded. He gestured angrily to himself, to the space between them. “I’m not a good person! I’ve tried to tell you, but I guess you’re too fucking dense to get it.”

“You’re lying,” Dick said again. “You’re lying. You’re _ lying.” _

“Well at least you get it now.”

Again his fist against the wall. Dick grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, crying out in frustration. In pain. He ached to dig his fingers into his skin, tear apart muscle and sinew and pull and pull and _ pull _until he was nothing but blood and memory. 

Jason exhaled sharply. “Look,” he said, “I did something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck your apology.”

“What do you want me to say, Dick? It was a mistake. I got the shit beat out of me, and I made a mistake.”

_ Bad idea, _ Jason had said. Dick remembered the words verbatim. _ Bad idea. Not good enough. Don’t deserve me. _

He took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Bruce always forced him to take lessons in meditation. Why didn’t he pay attention? Why didn’t he listen? _ Why why why why—- _

“Why?” he asked. It came out softer than he expected. A little more than a whisper. Suddenly he found himself looking into Jason’s eyes, letting himself be swallowed by the color, the uncertainty. “Why is it a mistake?”

Jason stared. He breathed in deeply, once, twice, until their chests rose and fell in synchronous rhythms. His hand twitched. “I don’t…” he began, but seemed to have encountered something he could not get around. _ “Fuck.” _

It happened so quickly Dick needed a moment to process it. Body in front of him. Hands on the sides of his head. Heat. Tongue. 

His back hit the wall, forcing the air from his lungs. Jason seemed to swallow it. His mind went blank. Wiped clean. Eyes wide. _ What? What? What? _Hand in his hair. Hand on his navel. Tongue gone. Everything gone. 

“Shit,” Jason was mumbling. “Shit. Fuck. Fucking stupid.” 

And it all came back.

“What the _ hell?” _ Dick growled. _ Roared. _ He pushed Jason away, let him fall backward over the coffee table, let him crash against the floor. “You can’t fucking do that. You can’t _ do that!” _

“I didn’t—” 

“Fuck you,” Dick muttered. He marched past Jason and flung open the front door, not caring when the handle struck the wall. Footsteps. Door opening. Door closing. Someone followed—Jason, probably—but he couldn’t spare the energy to look. Get out. He just needed to _ get out get out get out. _

Take the stairwell. Climb up. Door to roof: open. There was a garden up there, small and dying, with just enough green to show that someone had cared for it during the springtime months. Tulips. Beans. Peas. Plastic chairs and glass awnings made opaque by grime and dust. 

Dick leaned over the edge of the roof and gulped down air. His arm ached beneath his weight. He let it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Somewhere, birds were calling. The cement of the roof was grainy and cool beneath his bare feet. Gotham smelled like ice water and asphalt. 

“Fuck you,” he said again, when he felt Jason come up beside him. The heat was withdrawing now, leaving him tired, heavy, _wanting. _He could hardly work up the breath to speak. “You’re really good at making mistakes, you know that?”

_ Oh, you’ve done it now! _ thought his rational brain, and he couldn’t bring himself to disagree. Dick Grayson doesn’t know when to stop. Dick Grayson can’t do anything right. 

But Jason didn’t even flinch. “I know,” he said quietly.

Dick sighed, buried his head in his hands. “I just… _ Not good enough. _That’s what you said. Is that why?” 

A moment.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said quietly. 

Dick shot him a look. “Answer the question.” 

Hugging himself, Jason looked out over Gotham. His jaw tensed. Loosened. “You’re Richard Grayson,” he said, “and I’m me. Poison. Everything—” He squeezed his eyes shut, took a shaky breath. “Roman killed the good I had. Don’t you get that?”

Dick laughed bitterly. Sadly? Bitterly. “I don’t believe you.”

“Because you’re a good person,” Jason said. If he was not crying, he was close to it. His eyes were shinier than usual, _ greener _than usual. “I don’t want to drag you down.”

“What about what I want?” 

“What are you saying?” 

The words flew out before he could think better of them. “I’m saying I _ want _you, Jason,” Dick said. No, sobbed. His voice broke; it hurt to breathe. It was too much. “I want you, Jay.”

Jason blinked. “You…but you’re Dick Grayson.” 

“And?” Dick muttered. 

“You shouldn’t.”

Now Dick was laughing for real. Like a valve opening to release pressure. _ Let it out, let it out. _ “Why? Because I’m _ perfect?” _ More laughter. Tears. Pain. “I couldn’t save my parents. Couldn’t be what Bruce wanted me to be. Got shot. Left. Found friends. Left them too. Do you even _ know _ how many people have died because of me?”

“But—”

“It’s true.” He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t _ stand. _Falling to the concrete, Dick pulled his knees into his chest. “You can’t bring me down, Jay,” he muttered. “I’m already down here with you.”

Jason said nothing. He lowered himself to the ground—slowly, wincing as his leg tucked beneath his body—and then the two of them were sitting next to each other. 

“I didn’t know,” Jason said at last. 

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I know,” Dick said again. Licking his lips, he said, “I’m sorry too.”

“I know.”

Dick felt a smile flicker across his face. A wind blew through them, carrying with it dried leaves and the scent of steel and brick. Dick watched the leaves disappear against the sky, thinking about the feel of Jason’s lips against his own. “What now?” he asked.

Jason rubbed his wrist. “I guess that depends on whether or not we can come back from this.”

“Can anyone come back from anything?”

“Move forward, then.” One of his hands fell to his side. A long scar ran beneath the flesh of his thumb, silver against the peach of his skin.

For half a moment Dick stared at it, then tore his eyes away. “You know me,” he said. “I’m always on the move.”

“Heh.”

“And you?” 

“I’d like to think so.”

“Thinking’s the hardest part,” Dick replied. 

There it was again. Jason’s smile. He wanted to fall into it, lock it away in his mind so he could always find a _ smiling Jason Todd. _

“You’re wise today,” Jason said. 

“It’s been known to happen.”

“I’d say. You might as well be my fucking conscience.” 

“Someone has to be,” Dick said, grinning.

Jason snorted. “Touché,” he muttered. He scratched at his neck, where the electrical burn stood stark against his skin. “You were right. Before. I _ was _ lying.”

“Duh.” Dick played with his hands, turning them over each other, digging the pads of his fingers into his palms. “You’re a liar, Jason Todd.”

“You got me there.”

Dick paused, staring up at the sky. Bright blue. A single gray cloud, crawling toward the vanishing point of the horizon. “It’s a nice day.”

“Yeah.”

“Think your neighbors will call the police over our _ domestic squabble?” _

Jason let out a short laugh. “Domestic squabble, huh.”

“What would you call it?” Dick asked.

“Me being an emotionally constipated asshole?” 

“Right.” Dick laughed. “If you’re emotionally constipated, I have emotional diarrhea.” 

“Gross,” Jason said, but his eyes were sparkling.

“You started it.” 

“Right.” He leaned back against the edge of the roof and stared at the dirty awning. The seconds stretched thin, until the silence took the space of an hour. “I’m sorry for kissing you like that, in the apartment. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I accept your apology.”

“Is this us moving forward?”

“If you want it to be.”

“I do.” The smile faded from Jason’s face. He stared over the roof, directing his gaze toward something Dick could not see. “But I don’t know where to go.”

Dick let out a long breath. When his hand fell to his side, his fingers brushed against Jason’s. He stilled, then stretched his hand a little further, until his palm rested over the swell of Jason’s knuckles. Then they were still. 

“That’s okay,” he replied softly. “No one ever does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie. This chapter was a monster. Send help.
> 
> [REGGIE'S ART](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24379363/chapters/58800766)   



	22. Scar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo siento for the late chapter. Hopefully the content will make up for my poor time management. 
> 
> (In other news, chapters seven through seventeen have been edited to feature new and improved Dick Grayson. I don't expect you to reread anything, but it is important to me that you know that Dick is no longer a pushover and Jason is not an unrepentant asshole.)
> 
> A million thanks to everyone who comments, especially my discord pals. You guys really keep me going. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** fairly graphic violence, references to drugs, references to abuse, panic attacks.

The men went down easy.

So easy, in fact, that Jason could hardly have called it a fight. That would be an insult to fights, to the world of combat as a whole. A punch to the kidneys, a knee to the groin, an elbow to the jugular. Broken wrists, broken knees. They didn’t even have the time to scream. 

As he lowered the third man to the ground, Jason cast another glance at his surroundings. A dingy truck. Trash bags. A duffel bag. Whatever was not cloaked in shadow was lit by the single orange bulb at the end of the alleyway. The whole effect was decidedly unironic, like finding a ghost in a cemetery. Of course they’d run drugs through here. 

The duffel bag was heavier than he expected. Either it was packed to the brim with blow or—

_ Nope, _Jason thought, as he checked the contents. Not cocaine. Oxy. But the distinction didn’t matter much; either way it was money that wouldn’t end up in Roman’s hands. 

On the ground, one of the men groaned stupidly. Jason stared down at him for half a moment, watching the man clutch his broken knee. Instinct told Jason to put him down, but as his fingers grazed the handle of his knife, he thought of Dick’s eyes, the curve of his brow. 

There it was again, that little thought that told him to _ be good for him. _A stupid thought, a nonsensical thought, and yet his fingers retreated from the knife. No killing. The men on the ground weren’t like Roman, weren’t even like the higher-ups that squashed Gotham beneath their heels. These were no more than footsoldiers—and if they’re fighting skills told Jason anything, it was that they could hardly be classed as wannabes. This was the kind of shit his father got into. 

Without a second thought Jason drove the toe of his boot into the man’s temple. A twitch, then nothing. Out cold. Better than the alternative.

Hiking the duffel bag over his shoulder, Jason started out of the alleyway, stepping over the limp bodies in his path. When he came to the body of the truck, he paused, reaching into his own bag to retrieve the small can he had stored there. Shook it. Pressed his finger on the trigger.

It only took a few strokes. Jason wasn’t an artist by any means, but he figured it was good enough. Oval for the face, two more for the eyes, line for the mouth. The paint dripped down the side of the truck before it dried, giving the face a drooping, bloodied look. That was fine by him. Nothing wrong with a little theatrics. 

He checked the time on his burner phone before he hopped on the bike, but he didn’t have to. He could tell from the world around him—blinding headlights, the squeal of trains along their tracks, the distant churning of factories coming to life—that it was a little after four. Gotham was coming to life. 

“Shit,” he muttered, looking down at the duffel bag. Five hours of patrol, or whatever it was called, and all he had to show for it was a couple grand in percs. Like throwing cotton balls against a bulletproof window. Roman would hardly notice it was gone. Hell, the bastard might even laugh about it. 

_ Losing your touch, Little Wolf? _

His neck burned as the strap of the duffel bit into the raw skin. The result of Deathstroke’s blow had hardly healed over the past week; though it had scabbed over and the swelling had subsided, it still stung like a bitch. His legs were the same. And after a week of sleeping on his back—if he _ did _sleep, which he really didn’t—still and straight as a pencil, the rest of him was starting to feel stiff and sore as well. 

But it would be worth it, to chip away at Roman until he was nothing but dust. 

The bike came to life with a low grumble. It was old as shit, but Jason had never been a choosing beggar. Besides, the jackass it had once belonged to kept it running, which was good enough for him. 

On his way back to the apartment, he tossed the duffel full of drugs on the doorstep of the police department. He had half a mind to keep a few tablets for himself—just in case, obviously—but then the last thing he needs is another habit to kick. Hopefully the idiots at the precinct would know what to do with it. 

The moment he walked into the apartment, he let his bag _ thud _to the floor. His body armor soon followed. Sleep. He needed to sleep. Already the dark circles beneath his eyes had become semi-permanent, and he could hardly keep his eyes open come day. It didn’t help that being around Dick kept him on edge at all times, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

It was strange, moving forward. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word. Curious? Different? Uncomfortable? In any case, Jason felt as if he were trudging through a swamp, cutting down vines and branches only to find more vines and branches, thicker and sharper and stronger than before. His boots and pants were water-clogged; his face marred by mosquito bites and mud. No visuals. No way out. 

He tried not to imagine the things Dick could say. 

_ Actually, I changed my mind. _

_ Actually, I don’t want you anymore. _

_ Actually, I never have. _

_ Actually, you’re a monster. _

Jason grit his teeth as he walked into his bedroom and ripped off his gloves, his knee pads. _ I’m trying, _ he thought. To whom the thought was directed, he was not sure. It felt like a lie anyway. If he were _ really _ trying, he’d be taking down more than petty criminals trafficking a couple thousand dollars’ worth of drugs. If he were _ really _trying, he wouldn’t be back here, in his apartment, while Gotham fell apart around him. 

One boot undone. He kicked it towards the closet, then started on the other. His fingers, numb with exhaustion, struggled with the tight knot of the laces.

Then, a voice: “Where did you run off to?” 

Jason’s hands fell to his side, leaving his boot half-untied. He looked at the familiar form standing in the shadows of his room, at the window behind it. Wide open and giving way to the dark streets outside his apartment. Typical. 

“You ever gonna use a door?” he asked. 

“Lost my key.”

“You shouldn’t climb with your arm.”

“And you should lock your windows,” Dick said. “Where were you?” 

“Nowhere,” he replied, and that was the truth. Roman’s men were nowhere and they were everywhere, a threat lurking in the alleyways of Gotham nights. And maybe that’s all they were, a threat. Five nights of work, and Jason had only found the slightest evidence of Roman’s operations. Tire marks where there should be none; an empty shipping container with traces of blood inside. A couple thousand dollars’ worth of drugs. He could picture them moving boxes, bodies, bricks of coke, vials of pills. Automatics in their hands, grotesque masks over their faces. Dumb grunts saying dumb shit. All those things should have been out there. 

But they weren’t. 

Across the room, Dick unfolded his arms. Jason was struck by the sudden urge to fill the empty space of his chest, pull them together until they melted into one being. No longer _ Dick _ and _ Jason, _ but _ them. _Together. Safe. 

_ Not safe, _ he reminded himself, untying the knot on his boot. _ Not yet. _

“Nowhere,” Dick repeated. 

“Look, I was out. Patrol. Whatever.”

Dick’s jaw twitched in annoyance, or maybe concern. “How long have you been doing this?” he asked. 

With a sigh, Jason ran his hands over the fabric of his pants, ignoring the protests of the still-tender skin beneath. “The last five nights.”

“You didn’t tell me.” An accusation.

“I haven’t found anything,” Jason said. 

Dick stepped closer to him, into the dim light of the lamp beside the bed. The yellow glow made his face appear softer even as it sharpened the lines of his body. Shoulders. Jaw. Lips. Like polished stones his eyes caught the light and gave it back to the room. God, that _ blue. _

“What if you got hurt?” he asked softly. 

“I didn’t,” Jason replied.

“But what if you did?”

_ “What ifs _ are bullshit. What if _ you _got hurt? What if Batman wore a pink suit? What if a hippo fell from the sky?” 

“Jason.” Dick’s hand found Jason’s shoulder and squeezed softly. Jason ached to lean into the touch, to feel the gentle heat of another body pressing against his own, but he held his ground. Neutral was okay. Neutral was not a risk. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He began to fiddle with the straps on his legs, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. Something stirred in his gut, pricked at the inside of his skin. Off. Definitely off. “I’m thinking that I’m fine, Dick,” he lied. “Really. I’m not on _ your _ ass about patrol.”

The hand fell away. “Are you _ trying _ to kill yourself?” Dick snapped. “What about your legs? Your neck? Your head?”

“I’ve been through worse.”

“That’s a shitty excuse.”

Jason ran a hand through his hair slowly, enjoying the strain of locks pulling away from his scalp. The feeling inside him grew worse, festering like water in the moments before it came to a boil. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked, swallowing the tremor in his voice. “Just sit here and count the blisters on my legs? Roman is still out there, Dick. He’ll always be out there. I can’t let him win.”

“You’re not alone in this. I’m looking for him too.”

“Really.”

“Yes, Jason,” Dick said. He lifted the hem of his sweatshirt, showing off a hard black material. Kevlar. “I’m looking too.”

_ Festering, festering. _ Now his breath gave little comfort; each inhale seemed useless. “Oh, so _ you _ get to go on patrol and _ I _don’t? Shit, Dickiebird.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t about me.”

“You’re right,” Jason said. “Roman didn’t ruin _ your _ life. _ You _ weren’t beaten, starved, stabbed, or brainwashed. _ You _ weren’t—you weren’t _ whored out _ to any asshole with a secret to spill. And if I don’t stop him, he’ll—he’ll—” He collapsed onto his bed, suddenly too weak to stand, too weak to do anything but stare at his trembling palms. “I have to do this, Dick. Can’t you see that I have to do this?”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Yeah.” He laughed despite the growing disquiet. It wasn’t a bitter laugh, at least not quite. _ Resigned _ would have been the better word. Maybe _ fearful. _“I guess I’m just a shit partner. Surprise, surprise, am I right?”

A moment passed. Slowly, Dick sat down next to him and rested his arms on his legs. Up close, Jason could see that his face was dirtied; his hair, wind-whipped. A single lock had fallen away from the others, coming to rest across the swell of his cheekbone. Quickly, with a gentle brush of his finger, Jason pushed it back into place, then pretended he had not.

Dick let out a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Do what?” Jason replied.

“You know. That.”

Jason stared for a second, then said, “Yeah.”

“Figured.” When Dick sighed, the lock of hair fell out of place again. This time Jason stayed put. “You’re a shit partner.”

_ Festering, festering. _ When Jason swallowed, his tongue felt thick. Useless. 

“Do they know?” he asked. 

“Who?”

“The rest of them.”

Dick chuckled again. His shoulders shuddered as he laughed, his lip curled into a half-pleasant smile. The other half Jason did not think about. “There’s not much to tell, is there?”

Jason felt himself sinking lower. _ I’m sorry, _ he wanted to say. _ I’m not good at relationships, _ he wanted to say. _ I’ve never, not with anyone, _he wanted to say. But something told him that Dick already knew these things, so he stayed quiet, rubbing the outside of his forearm. 

“What were you doing?” he asked, after a moment. “Out there. On patrol.”

Dick shrugged. “Probably the same thing you were.”

“Hypocrite. Any luck?”

“Caught two muggers and a would-be car thief.” Dick looked over at him, his eyes scanning from top to bottom. The silence was heavy, thick. Each second seemed to hang on a little longer, until Jason did not know how long they had been looking at each other, and then _ not _looking at each other, and then looking at each other again. Jason’s stomach clenched; his limbs tensed with dread or perhaps a sick anticipation. 

_ Festering, festering. _

Big blue eyes. Soft lips. Or at least, Jason thought he remembered them being soft. It was a blur, really. 

“How’s your leg?” Dick asked at last. 

Jason stretched out his right leg and flexed his thigh, feeling the tight, scabbing skin strain against the motion. “Fine. Got a few blisters. What about your side?”

“I could complain, but I won’t.”

Another pause. Jason chewed his lower lip, thinking about flames, Dick’s voice, his aching head, the tiny, stupid urge to _ kiss him _ that never really went away. Shit. He tried to walk away—as if he could escape the urge, the want, the sickness _ — _ only to find that his body would not budge. Once, twice. _ Move, _he told himself, but nothing happened. 

There must have been something on his face, because then Dick was saying his name, and Jason still could only rub the scar on his arm and try not to throw up. 

_ Festering. Festering. _

Swallowing, Jason shook his head. “You don’t deserve to be hurt.” 

Dick wet his lips, his gaze fixed on the flat surface of the floor. “I don’t know about that,” he said quietly.

_ If you saw you like I see you… _

“It’s true.”

Dick didn’t reply. His hands turned over each other, twisting, pressing. Jason thought for a moment about slipping his own hand between them, or maybe his whole body, falling into nothing in Dick’s arms. 

“Look. I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jason said suddenly. 

“Me neither.”

Jason sighed loudly and ran his hands down his face. “It’s not like that. I really don’t know what I’m doing. How to _ be _with someone. I’ve never…” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish that statement, unsure if he even wanted to. 

_ Festering. _

_ Festering. _

Boiling. 

It came from nowhere, the panic. Or maybe it had been there all along. Jason didn’t have the strength to know or care. 

His knees hit the ground first. Then one hand. Somehow he remained upright, gripping the edge of the nightstand until he was sure his fingertips would snap off. He was vaguely aware of someone next to him—Dick, it was Dick next to him—but he didn’t care, couldn’t care, not when _ Roman was out there and winning. _

_ Gonna kill me gonna kill us both I’m going to die we’re going to die. _

Tongue thick. Heart pounding. It seemed the very walls of the room were shadow, creeping closer. He’s going to die. They’re both going to _ die. _

“Jason?” Dick asked. 

_ Not again not again not again. _

“You don’t understand,” Jason said. Too loud. Too forceful. But control of his voice was beyond him, getting worse as the seconds tore through him. _ Why am I like this? _ There is something wrong with him. How could Dick ever—why would he ever? With Jason? “I have to—Roman is out there and I have to—I can’t do this. _ I have to do this!” _

“Jason, breathe.” 

A weight settled on the curve of his spine. A hand? A gun? A gun. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths so short they almost feel like one long release. Air from a balloon. 

“Breathe.”

“He’s gonna kill you, Dick. He’s gonna kill you. I don’t want him to kill you too.” Jason gasped for air and found none. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. 

“Up,” Dick said, as hands wrapped beneath Jason’s arms, yanked him to his feet. Held him there. “I’m right here, Jason. I’m right here.”

Finally: oxygen.

“You’re safe,” Dick continued. “You’re in a safe place. You’re okay. You’re not hurt.”

Not hurt. Was that true? His legs—and his neck—

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. The shadows fell away, revealing Dick’s face, not too far from his own. Big breath in, big breath out. _ Safe. _

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. The moment Dick’s hands fell away, he felt himself sitting back down. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Jason looked up at him, ready to work up a smile, when he saw the furrow in Dick’s brow, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Though still reeling, his mind was able to spit out a conclusion: _ he’s hurt too. _

“Shit,” he mumbled. Big breath in, big breath out. “M’sorry. You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t have to.”

Dick sat down again, resting his hand dangerously close to Jason’s. Touching. Fingers flitting over his, then leaving, coming to rest beside Dick’s thigh. 

“Thank you,” Jason said, swallowing the heartbeat on his tongue.

“You’ve got to let me in.”

“I know.”

Silence again. Fucking silence. 

“It’s late,” Jason began, if only to fill the void around them. “I should—we should—”

“Right.” Dick stood, leaving a chill where his body once was. “I’ll go. You get some sleep.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

What indeed. Jason blinked, surprised that the thought had left him so quickly. So easily. At once he shrugged, let a mask of indifference slide over his face. “Go if you want to,” he said. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar, Jason Todd,” Dick said.

“Whatever. Your toothbrush is still in the cupboard,” Jason replied.

He was already in bed, staring into the pitch-black space between the bed and the nightstand, when he heard Dick moving around. Big breath in, big breath out. Jason’s heart began to beat faster, for an entirely different reason than before. Several thoughts flickered across his mind: Dick, Roman, lying, trust. 

His scars began to itch. 

“Dick?” he asked quietly. Hardly a whisper. 

A moment. Then: “Yeah?”

“Will you—” _ Shit. _Jason couldn’t say it. It was as if his mouth had filled with a thick, gelatinous substance, glueing his teeth together and welding his lips shut. He closed his eyes, replacing the darkness of the room with a darkness of his own making. 

In the midst of it all, he felt these things:

The mattress shifting. Covers moving. A body lying next to his, stirring, then falling still. Waiting. His own body, moving without his active consent, or with too much of it. A worry growing in his deepest core—_ please, please, please— _until, at last, there was no space between them. Big breath in, big breath out. A heartbeat in his ear, an arm around his torso, fingers in his hair. 

“You’re warm,” Dick said, after a moment. 

Jason said nothing, too absorbed in the rhythm of Dick’s heart. It was faster than he expected, though the longer he remained motionless, the slower it ran. Fingers in his hair traced the shape of his skull, up and down, back and forth. At some point, Dick’s other hand sought out the skin of Jason’s arm, falling from his shoulder to his elbow before settling over the long white scar beneath his wrist. Tentative. Questioning. 

The touch was a memory. In Jason’s mind he was younger, softer, better. He didn’t know about living death. Didn’t know what it was like to have his soul ripped from his body. All he knew was the coldness of the penthouse, the endless routine of training and learning and watching and boredom. And then…and then… 

“I was only sixteen,” he muttered. 

“Hmm?”

Jason grit his teeth. He could feel a pressure building behind his eyes, but damn him if he would let it spill out. “It was stupid,” he continued. “I thought I could get away with it. And then Roman found out and he…”

Dick’s fingers stopped. His chest rose and fell with each breath, carrying Jason with it. “Get away with what?” he asked softly. 

_ Don’t you fucking cry, _ Jason told himself, but it was too late. Fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to trap the wetness before it soaked Dick’s sweatshirt. The name was stale on his tongue. Stale in his mind. For five years, it had been a blip in his memory; an empty spot. _ Forget; don’t think… _

“Jamie,” Jason said. “His name was Jamie.”

The grip around him loosened. Jason waited for a response, chewing his lip, holding tight to Dick, to reality. And then the fight became too much and the words tumbled from his mouth, broken and stark and wet.

“Cut his throat. My arm. Thought I was gonna bleed out. But I didn’t.” 

Waking on the floor. So tired. Dead body next to him. Just a boy, his age. Dead. It was a mercy. Jason was not supposed to care, but he did. And that was why he had to die. 

_ You know what this makes you? _ Roman had asked. _ Weak, Jason. This makes you weak. You want love? Turn it into a weapon. _

That was where it began, wasn’t it. 

There was little else to say. Jason stared into the black corners of the room, his body empty; a shell without a yolk. Strange, how quickly these things bubbled up and fell away. Or maybe he had forced it down. Yes, that had to be it. No wonder he felt the beginnings of nausea in his gut. 

Dick held him tightly, kissed the top of his head so gently it might have been a dream. “What do you need from me right now?” he asked softly. 

Jason said nothing, hoping an answer would come from that. It did. Dick did not move, did not speak. He only breathed—in, out, in, out, in, out—a rhythm Jason tried but could not match.

Sleep would not come to him. 

♟♟♟

Sleep came to him. He didn’t know when it did, or how he could have missed it, but it came. Because then it was morning, and light was streaming through the blinds—of course he forgot to close them—and one of his legs was wrapped around Dick Grayson. 

Jason touched his face. Sticky. A subtle throbbing lurked below his temples, the remains of a nightmare or something worse: silent cries. _ Fuck, _he thought, burying his face in the pillow. 

For a moment, he lay still, listening to his own breath, to Dick’s soft breaths next to him. Dick’s lips were parted slightly, his brow relaxed. One arm was above his head, curving toward his skull, while the other lay across his stomach, rising and falling with his breath. Of course he was beautiful in his sleep. A Renaissance sculpture. More precise and intricate than anything Jason could have imagined. 

Sleeping next to him. 

Jason reached for Dick’s shoulder, then paused, fingers hovering over the fabric of his sweatshirt. _ This is real. _The gentle scent of Dick’s hair: real. The heat of his body: real. The memory of his lips, soft and tender and trusting: real. All of him: real. 

Was he really weaker for wanting him? He didn’t want to believe it—hell, he knew he shouldn’t. But the longer he stared at Dick, the more he took in, the more his heart began to tremble. Roman could kill him. Dick could end it. Maybe both. And if those things happened, Jason would shatter. 

Fuck. That was what Roman would have him believe, wasn’t it. 

Dick woke as Jason slipped out of bed. His sweatshirt had ridden up the wall of his abdomen, curling in on itself to reveal muscle, hard and smooth. A bolt of heat flashed down Jason’s center. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice groggy. 

Jason stared at the carpeted floor. “I can’t stop,” he replied. “Would you?”

“Are you okay? What you said—”

“—happened a long time ago. I knew him for a week. Less.” He shrugged off his shirt and threw a fresh one over his head. The collar scraped down the raw skin of his neck, but the short burst of pain hardly registered. “It’s not going to happen again.”

_ Not again. Not to you. _

Dick sat up, squinting as sunlight fell into his eyes. “Got a plan?”

“No.” 

A pause. As Jason pulled on a pair of tactical pants, he heard the distinct sound of someone climbing out of bed. “I was talking with Bruce yesterday,” Dick said.

Jason huffed in response. 

“He said that Harvey Dent broke out of Arkham.”

“I didn’t know Dent was in Arkham,” Jason muttered. Belt. Socks. Boots. Don’t think about loving Dick, losing Dick, leading him to die. 

“Just went in.”

“This wouldn’t happen if he were dead.” 

“If he were dead, he couldn’t go after Roman.”

Jason paused, turning over the words in his head. “You mean…?”

“Yeah,” Dick said. He walked up to Jason, moved to touch him before his hand fell back to his side. Limp. Empty. “If you’re up for it.”

“I’m fine,” Jason replied.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Are _ you _up for it? When was the last time you slept?”

“If you try hard enough, I think you’ll remember waking up next to me,” Dick replied.

Jason feigned surprise. “Fuck. Did I really?” 

“I know. Shocker.”

Trying not to smile, Jason focused back on lacing up his boots. He glanced once at the bed, then at Dick—his gut stirred with the memory of being held, being loved—before bringing his attention back to the task at hand. Behind him, he could hear Dick working on the kevlar under armor, tugging it over his head and down his chest. _ His chest. _Fuck. Jason tugged the laces until his ankle screamed. 

“I haven’t done that before,” he muttered. 

“What was that?” Dick asked.

“I haven’t slept with anyone. Well—shit. You know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Dick scratched the back of his neck. It was clear from his expression that he was struggling with what to say. Finally, he said, “I’m honored that you trust me.”

Jason snorted. “‘I’m honored that you trust me.’ Jesus.”

“What?”

“What is this, an academic email? _ In regards to our previous correspondence…” _

Dick gave him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. It was a rhetorical statement. A fact. Just like…” He trailed off, cleared his throat. When he looked down at his arm, the scar began to itch. “...Just like everything else.” 

_ Fact: Jason Todd woke up next to someone else. _

_ Fact: That person is Dick Grayson. _

“Ah.” Dick nodded as he walked past Jason, touching him gently on the shoulder as he passed. His fingers lingered for a second too long, brushing across the curve of his spine, down the first inch of his shoulder. Then they were gone, and Dick was pausing in the doorway. Grinning. 

“What?”

“So I’m your first, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jason said. 

Dick’s laughter followed him out the door. Jason watched him go, clenching and unclenching his fists to loosen the tightness in his arms. The ghost of Dick’s touch still lingered on his body, warm beneath his skin, shivering at the nape of his neck. Gentle. Kind. Loving. 

He took a deep breath, and began to gather his things.

♟♟♟

It was easy, tracking down a pair of masks. 

Step One: Call your contacts. The men that used to work for Roman. Tell them that you’re still in business, and that you’re working on something new. You need a mask. And they know where to find them, don’t they? 

Step Two: Meet your contact at a storage unit. Get the masks. Demand to know why they weren’t thrown away. Break your contact’s nose. Tell him that he’s lucky you didn’t break something else.

Step Three: Figure out where Harvey Dent is running his latest shitshow. Shouldn’t be hard. Like all the rogues in Gotham, Dent is not a subtle man. 

Step Four: Wait it out. Resist the urge to think about your partner, or scars, or what might happen if you fail.

Dusk had settled over Gotham, casting the city in a deep violet hue. In the near-distance Amusement Mile glowed with the light of ugly, flickering neons. Jason thought he tasted salt and blood in the air, thought he heard the creak of metal structures and the faintest hint of laughter. He shrugged it off. Creepy fucking place.

“Here?” Jason asked. “Really?” 

Dick nodded toward the outdoor mall across the street. An older structure, clearly passed its heyday. Empty shops. Torn signs. Dead plants. Hell, it was only missing a tumbleweed and a few rabid dogs. “That’s what the chatter said.”

“I know, it’s just—” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why do the bastards always meet in shit places? Why can’t they take a spa day or something?” 

“Heh. I’ve been asking myself that for over a decade.” 

Jason hummed, playing with the mask in his hands. It was a black and vaguely skeletal, as all of the False Face masks were, hard and cool beneath his fingers. He turned it over—once, twice—before staring into the empty eye sockets. The image of Roman’s mask flickered across his mind, as did the hostile eyes beneath. Jason knew that mask like he knew his own face. 

God, how many years did he spend looking into it? Up at it? Trusting it? Jason’s fingers tightened around the mask, squeezing until his wrists began to tremble. 

A second passed. Another. 

“You good?” Dick asked.

Jason lowered the mask. “Peachy keen.”

Dick’s ocean eyes flashed, drawing him into the deep, twisting blue. “I’m being serious.”

Jason sighed, casting his gaze purposefully toward the horizon. The Amusement Mile Sign flickered crimson, then went out completely. “Look,” he replied, “we both have damage. So let’s just pretend to be fine together. Unless you want to tell me why you and Bruce have that—” He motioned vaguely. “You know.”

Dick’s jaw twitched. “You know about that?” he asked at last. 

“I couldn’t cut the tension with the God Killer.” 

Pause. “Fair.” Dick sighed, leaned over the edge of the building. “Bruce fired me. Twice. And other shit.”

“That sucks,” Jason said.

Dick pulled a face but said nothing. After a moment, he said, “Masks.” 

Jason saw what he meant at once: Dent’s half-white suit was blinding against the deep grays and browns of the structure. The wind carried the rough edge of his words: angry shouts, mad rambles. Fucking creep. Made his blood run cold. 

“He’s a good shot,” Dick said. “And he’s unpredictable. We’ve got to get in and out fast.”

“I know,” Jason said, dropping onto the fire escape. Down the stairs—swing down the ladder—quiet and invisible as shadow. Inhale, exhale. Feet on the ground. 

Just like old times. Complete with one Harvey Dent. 

Up close, Jason could feel the vibrations in Dent’s gruff voice. He kept to the darkness, avoiding the thin purple light falling down the side of the building. Silent. Twenty feet in front of him: two men with automatics. Closer, closer… 

_ “—all of you!” _ Dent roared, kicking a crate by his side. Explosives class 1.2A. Jason would bet anything they were grenades. Another crate lay to the side, well within Dent’s control but outside his vision. Perfect. 

Fifteen feet away. Ten. 

Inhale, exhale. 

Roman’s men used guns. Tasers. Loud, booming weapons that made the aggressor feel like a god among men. No silent take-downs. This had to hurt. 

Jason pulled two capsules from his pocket, closed his eyes, and hurled them forward.

The burst of the flashbomb shook his teeth. The second sent a shock down his spine. Even with his eyes closed, the light bled through. Scarlet. 

And then the shouts. _ Dick, _Jason realized, when he heard staccato cracks coming from the courtyard. Firecrackers, he figured. Maybe smoke pellets. Anything to get them away from the crate. From Jason. 

_ “Bring me his fucking corpse!” _Dent was screaming. 

God. It would be so easy to find him in the smoke and crackling light, to snap his neck and end his assault on Gotham. So easy… 

Shit. Maybe what he had with Dick was a weakness. 

Jason grit his teeth and dove toward the nearest crate, struggling to break the wooden planks on the lid. Pulling, straining. _ Come on, _ he thought. One more tug. No. One more tug. _ No! _

“The shit?” someone yelled. 

He looked up, locked eyes with a man pointing a gun at his face. _ Shit. _

Instinct took over. Dive, it said. Roll. Move. Ignore the bullets so close you can feel the air in their wake. Tackle. Punch. Take a blow to the jaw. Punch again. Again. Again. _ Again. _

The knuckles of his glove came back bloodied. Beneath him, the man was limp, broken in several places. If he had the time to think, Jason might have _ thought. _But he didn’t. He didn’t have time at all. He had only instinct. 

_ Reorient yourself. Knees bent. Hands up. Swing. Kick. One man down. Another. Take one hit. A second hit. Shrug off the pain. No, _ embrace _ the pain. This is your fight. You are its god. _

When he was the last one standing, Jason spat red and picked up the first weapon he could find. 

His hands molded around the gun like it was meant to be there. Raise arms. Tilt head. Eye down the barrel. Line up the shot—see through the smoke, through the shouts and the light and the chaos—and pull the trigger.

The first bullet took out a knee.

The second tore off fingers.

The third buried itself in a calf. 

_ Empty. _

His jaw throbbed as he lowered the gun and turned his attention back to the crate. Shit mask. Hardly could protect him from a punch, much less a bullet. 

With a grunt, Jason drove his foot into the edge of the crate. Again. Again. Pain shot up his shin. The wood creaked. Groaned. Splintered. 

Broke.

Grenades tumbled to his feet. Jason went for the nearest one, running bloodied fingers over the coarse exterior as he searched the courtyard for any sign of Dick. The smoke had started to part, revealing a series of groaning, injured men. Gunshots. A suit, half-white and half-rotting fabric, screaming… shooting… 

His eyes widened. _ No. _

Without thinking, he charged forward. Blood rushing in his ears. Wind howling. Mind crying, _ don’t hurt him don’t hurt him don’t hurt him— _

Jason caught Dent around the waist, sending them both flying to the ground. Tumbling, tumbling. 

_ Get up. Get the fuck up. _

He pushed himself to his feet, kicking the gun away from Dent’s grasp. The man growled at up him, his undamaged lip curling into a sneer. 

“Are you a betting man?” Dent hissed. 

Jason paused. It was funny, almost—his life had been nothing but one, long gamble. And this time, with the grenade in his hand, with Two Face at his feet, with false face over his own, the odds were stacked in his favor. Finally.

_ Fact: Jason Todd wants to be free with Dick Grayson. _

He shrugged off the barrage of insults Two Face hurled at him. Inhale, Exhale. Held up the grenade. Threaded his fingers around the pin and yanked. 

_ Fifteen. Fourteen. _

“Consider this a welcome home gift,” Jason said, holding out the live grenade. _ Twelve. Eleven. _ “Black Mask says hello.” 

With the flick of his wrist, Jason tossed the grenades toward the crates and took off in a sprint. _ Move move move, _ screamed half of his brain, while the other said Dick’s name, again and again and again. _ Dick. _ He should have looked. _ Dick. _ He should have checked. _ Dick. _He should have—

The blast threw him forward. Bright white. Blinding. As his body hit the ground, he felt the air leave him all at once; a painful expulsion. Wheezing. Writhing. Ears ringing. The burns on his legs began to sting with a fresh vigor. Blood in his mouth.

And through it all: _ Dick. _

Half of one building had been blown apart; few remained untouched; another few _ burned. _ Broken glass, burning timber. Figures picking themselves off the ground, running to escape the sick heat of the flames, the thick, black smoke. His heart lurched at the sight. 

A hand around his arm. Jason tensed—whipped around—and found himself staring into bright blue eyes. 

The pain didn’t matter, anymore. 

“Let’s go,” Dick said, and they were running. 

Down the street. Windows and doors flying past, the sound of sirens in the distance. Dick’s hand locked around his own. Dick’s hand. Dick’s hand. Dick’s warm, strong, _ living _hand. 

When at last they slowed, caught in the darkness of an alley, they bent over, gasping for fresh air. Hands on his knees, Jason stared at the ground. _ Dick, _ he thought. _ Dick. Dick. _

Dick let out a sharp breath, resting a hand against the graffitied brick lining the alley. “Well,” he breathed, ripping the mask from his face. “That was something.”

Jason muttered something even he did not hear. It was as if something foreign had grabbed hold of his tongue, his lungs. 

“What?” Dick asked. 

Pulling off the mask, Jason let it fall to the ground. Air. He needed more air. Not a panic attack, but close to it; some emotion equally as powerful and dangerous. And Dick was standing next to him, strong and sweating and beautiful, his brow furrowing the way it always did when he felt something. Jason wished he knew how to _ feel _ like Dick. How to _ feel _ him, and make him feel perfectly and utterly _ loved. _

Loved. 

_ Fact: Jason Todd loves Dick Grayson. _

“Amazing,” Jason murmured. He rose to lock eyes with the man in front of him. “You’re amazing.”

Dick let out a short laugh, a laugh that sounded like it was the only thing he could do. “Jay—”

“Tell me not to kiss you.”

Dick blinked. A distinct redness spread over his face, a rich, full color that Jason burned to hold against him. “What?”

Jason stepped closer. Eighteen inches, more or less. A foot and a half of space between them. A rift as wide as the ocean, and infinitely more cruel. 

Another step. Eight inches. He could taste without tasting, feel without feeling. A shiver flitted down the length of his spine, erupting as a thunderhead of heat throughout his core. “I’m going to kiss you, Richard Grayson,” he said softly. 

Dick looked up, head tilted ever so slightly to one side. Gaze steadier than anything Jason could ever hope to be. Glinting with the first stars of night. “Then kiss me,” he said.

He only had to say it once.

It was easy, taking that last step. Easier still to meet him. Cupping Dick’s face in his hand, Jason bridged the heartbeat between their lips with the force of a blow. And maybe it was a blow, because the world was rushing by, and then the sudden halt—the wall. Dick grunted softly as Jason pushed harder, pressing the flat of his palm against the curve of Dick’s chest until the brick threatened to give way. Closer. Always Closer. And their eager mouths were melting together, their hands moving as if the touch of the other’s body was the only thing keeping them tethered to the earth. 

Jason held onto control long enough to feel the wildfire growing in his body, long enough to feel the pads of Dick’s fingers grace his cheeks. Only then did he let go, losing himself beneath Dick’s hands, across Dick’s chest and back, inside Dick’s mouth. He tasted mocha, the barest hint of mint. He felt the hard edge of a jaw, the soft hairs behind an ear. Teeth against teeth. Tongue against tongue. It was like a melody, a symphony, dozens of feelings and emotions all rising and falling in a rhythm that pushed toward _ want. _

He held on for his life. 

Dick gasped around Jason’s mouth, a quick intake of breath that exploded into sparks. The other man’s fingers found their way into his hair, around the ridge of his hip. Gasping. Then his lips—his lush, inviting lips—graced Jason’s neck, the space behind his jaw. 

Jason grunted, pushing Dick hard as he could against the wall, aching to fill every molecule of space between their bodies. “Fuck,” he muttered, when he felt the wet heat of a tongue skirting the tendons of his neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there. “Fuck, Dick.”

Hands falling down his back, lower, forcing their hips together. Dick came up for air, face flushed, gasping, “I want you, Jay. _ God. _Want you. So much.” 

The briefest moment of clarity. 

Jason had a choice. For the first time—teeth on his ear, warm breath stirring his hair—he could say no. He could tell Dick that he did not want in a physical way, that this—a leg wrapping around his thigh, drawing him closer, _ closer— _ was all he needed, all he wanted. But Dick—kissing him with the urgency of a thunderstorm, choking on each other—he wanted this for Dick. He wanted, ached, _ burned _ to give him everything. 

The room they found was cold. Abandoned a lifetime ago. They didn’t even need to pick the lock; the door swung open with a shrill whine. 

The masks hit the floor first. Then the gloves—ripped off—and armor, piece by piece by piece. Jason locked his mouth over Dick’s, struggling with the clasp of his belt, finally ripping it off. Fingers fumbling with his shirt—Jason shoved them away. Shoved Dick away. Against the wall. One hand tugging on the zipper of Dick’s pants, one hand splayed against the cool, dirtied paint. His palm came back grey, dusty. He laughed.

“Gross,” he mumbled, his teeth grazing the salty skin of Dick’s neck. 

Dick laughed with him. Again his hands found Jason’s shirt, slipped beneath the tight weave to explore his chest. Dragging. Clawing. 

Jason groaned into Dick’s hair. “Off,” he said, pulling away just for a moment to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside. And Dick’s shirt was off too, and his pants unbuttoned, and then their hands were all over the canvas of the other’s body. The initial swell of the chest. The surge of muscle beneath the ribcage. The rounded curve of the ass. Sweating. Kissing.

He had touched people before. Been touched before. But when their pants were shoved down their hips and the hairs of the carpet were tickling his neck, and they were kissing and moaning and tasting, Jason knew this touch was more real. Not perfect—by mistake Dick’s fingernails dug into his burned skin, by mistake Jason knocked the crown of his skull against the underside of Dick’s chin—but _ real. _

There was a cobweb in Dick’s hair. Jason knew there was blood and dirt on his own face. Parts of them tasted like fire and rubble. And he was groaning and bucking into Dick’s touch, whispering _ I love you _ until his voice collapsed. And Dick’s breath was hot and wet and shaking as he replied, _ love you too, _ like those were the only words in the universe.

Maybe they were. 

After, they stared up at the ceiling, fighting to come back to earth. Pants up and unbuttoned. Fingers intertwined. Jason’s heart pounded in his chest; his skin shivered with the cold descent of night on a thin sheen of sweat. 

“Fuck,” he said, and started laughing.

Dick pulled a flake of something gray from his hair and flicked it into the darkness. A smile threatened to spill over his lips. “Yeah,” he said, then snorted once and fell into laughter. 

“Pretty sure I saw a rat.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Great.” Jason rolled over to plant a quick kiss on Dick’s forehead, but found he could not extricate himself from the other man’s body. He wrapped his arms around Dick and rested his head above his heart, listening to the last echoes of laughter leave them. Then they were still. 

In the silence, the scar on his arm began to tingle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the story: explosions are sexy.
> 
> <strike>LMK if I should bump the rating</strike>
> 
> [Come say hi on Discord!](https://discord.gg/aBQnrTP)


	23. Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're closing in on the final arc of the story, folks. Expect somewhere around five more chapters before this beast is finally put to rest. A gazillion thank yous to everyone who comments. I love y'all. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:**mentions of violence and abuse, old guys being creepy

In the weeks that followed, Jason started to look forward to waking up. 

Waking up meant another chance. Another chance to piss Roman off. Another chance to tear down his empire once and for all. Another chance to intercept shipments, blow up weapons, set the bosses of Gotham against him: Harvey, Maroni, Falcone. _ Black Mask says hello. _

Another chance to make things right. 

But waking up also meant being next to Dick. Breathing in his scent, feeling the soft weight of Dick’s body in his arms or of Dick’s arms around his torso. Listening to the soft gasps that left him in even intervals. Kissing him on the forehead, or the temple, or the lips. Being kissed back. _ Wanting _it. 

He began to notice when he woke up alone. 

His first instinct was always to assume the worst. There was always that split second where fear fills his throat, and he can’t breathe, and all he can see are the things that would rip him apart. _ Dick is gone. Roman took Dick. Roman is torturing Dick. Roman is killing Dick. _

And then the second passed, and the world came back as it always did. Dick got up before him. That was the beginning and the end of it.

When Jason woke alone again, he tried not to think it. _ You’re both fine, _he told himself, sensing the absence beside his body. Yet sick anticipation flooded his mouth, and his fingers still searched the space before him, as if he would find a dried pool of blood, a piece of flesh, a tongue—

The other side of the bed was cool to the touch. He placed his palm against the sheets, trying to feel the memory of Dick’s living heartbeat beneath the fabric. There wasn’t yet an indent where he slept. Still, Jason liked to imagine it there, a dip in the mattress that reminded him he wasn’t alone, not really. 

Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders back, chasing away the stiffness from his upper body. A large bruise along his ribs protested the movement. _ Shit, _he thought, stretching his fingers out to prod at the edge of the bruise. That wasn’t there yesterday morning. 

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, listening to the sounds in the apartment. Nothing. The only thing he could hear was the quiet hum of cars passing down distant streets. 

Dick was always quiet in the mornings. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. 

In the bathroom, he splashed water over his face, ran his fingers through his hair, resisted the urge to drink the mouthwash. After, he lifted the side of his sweatshirt to look at the bruise on his side. The skin was dark purple and mottled, stretching from his armpit down to his hip. If he had to guess, it was the tumble he took over a guard rail while trying to escape two AK-47s. Fun times. 

As he turned to leave, Jason noticed the marks on his neck. He touched one gently; they were raw but without pain. These were not so mysterious. Jason could still feel Dick’s teeth scraping down his neck, could still hear fevered whispers in his ear as they rocked together. 

_ You’re so good, Jay. _

_ Stay still. _

_ Just lie back and let me love you. _

The thought brought fresh color to his cheeks even as his stomach twisted. For the briefest moment the face in the mirror belonged to a different him, the one that fucked in dark corners and back rooms, trying to get away from something he didn’t understand. Trysts that left color along his neck, across his hips, down his back. Then he blinked, and he was himself again.

Dick wasn’t like that. Not even close. 

Yet as he left, Jason adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt to cover them up. 

Dick was sitting on the sofa, staring silently at his laptop screen. Next to him: a full coffee mug, no longer steaming. “Hey handsome.”

Jason bent his head to press a soft kiss on Dick’s forehead, breathing him in. “What are you looking at?” he muttered, draping himself over Dick. 

“This.” He turned the screen around and pointed at a headline. GCPD ARRESTS TWENTY IN GANG-RELATED DISPUTE. Beneath are words Jason can only skim, blocks of text that highlight two words above the others: Black Mask. 

Something almost like humor rose inside him. Almost, but not quite. “How much?” Jason asked, picking up the coffee mug. Cold. 

“Hmm?” 

“How much did he lose?” 

“At least eight of the men were his.” Dick looked back at the screen, scrolled down. “There’s no mention of any ‘product’ seized by the cops, but I’m searching the logs now.” 

“You’ve got access to the police database?” Jason asked, walking over to the sink to dump the cold coffee down the drain. 

Dick laughed. “Of course I do.”

“Of course you do. How much sugar do you want?”

“As much as you’ll give me.” 

“Funny,” Jason muttered. He finished Dick’s mug off with half a teaspoon of sugar, poured one of his own—cream, no sugar—and sat in the chair across from him. “Are you gonna drink this one, or just let it go cold?” 

“After you spent all that time on it?” Dick picked up the mug and thread his fingers around the outside. Curls of steam blurred the fine features of his face. “I could never.” 

Jason said nothing, choosing instead to stare down at his own mug. The liquid shimmered with the imperceptible movements of his hands, reflecting the light from the window behind his shoulder. The steam was bitter on his tongue. 

The gangs of Gotham were turning on Roman. And despite the disaster in the shipping warehouse—the burns still had not healed, at least not completely—Jason still had some men of his own, men whose money went to _ him _ and not Roman. And now the cops, corrupt and useless as they were, had Black Mask on their mind. And on top of all of this, Dick _ loved _him. 

_ I should be happy, _ he thought. _ I should be happy, but I’m not. _

“It’s possible the Feds are starting to catch on to something,” Dick said. 

“The Feds aren’t gonna do shit. They didn’t do shit back then, they won’t do shit now. Roman’s sure as hell got a handful of them on his payroll.” Jason sighed deeply, letting his head roll back over the edge of the chair. “How _ else _could he get away with being the world’s most transparent scumbag?” 

A moment. 

“You good?” Dick asked.

Jason nodded. “I’m fine. Tired.” 

Dick closed the laptop. “Then go back to sleep.” 

“Why? You’re not sleeping.” 

“I’m not tired.”

As if Jason could not see the dark circles beneath Dick’s eyes, the heaviness in his shoulders. He wondered if Dick slept at all, or if he just waited for the chance to slip out of bed and work some more. 

For the first time that morning, Jason felt a cool breeze on the back of his neck. The door to the balcony was open. Under the pretense of looking over the street, he studied the glass, the threshold, looking for the smudge of a boot, a drop of blood that was not there before. 

Nothing, as far as he could tell. 

“How’d you sleep?” Jason asked, turning away from the open door. A dumb question, but the only one he could think of. 

Dick shrugged. “Fine.” 

“Yeah?”

“I mean, I was pretty tired after…” He made a vague but decipherable gesture, grinning slyly. “And I like falling asleep next to you.” 

Jason rolled his eyes. “Fucking romantic,” he muttered, as if he didn’t want to wrap himself around Dick right then, as if he didn’t want to _ beg _ him to stay safe, to take care of himself. _ I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in the first place. I guess I was just too selfish not to. _

Well. That really was the root of it all, wasn’t it? 

Dick took a long sip of coffee and sighs, flipping open the computer with his free hand. “You’re hilarious,” he said.

Jason wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so he kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to stare at the small scar on Dick’s cheekbone. Half an inch of silver darting across the skin. To anyone else it would be hardly noticeable, a trick of the light perhaps. But Jason noticed. 

Sometimes, at night, he’d be ripped from a nightmare, hair matted with sweat and limbs trembling. But he couldn’t move. Because if he moved, if he sobbed into the crook of his arm or the pillow or the air, then Dick would wake up too. And Dick was already sleeping so little, and he deserved everything and more, and it wasn’t fair to give him something else to worry about—because of _ course _he’d worry about it. He’s Dick. So all Jason could do is stare at the ceiling and count the ways he hurt him. 

_ Broken arm. Concussion. Bruises. Cuts. Knife wounds. Burns. Insults. Lies. _

Looking at the scar on Dick’s face, all Jason could see was Slade’s katana piercing the skin. Another thing he could have prevented, if he didn’t drag Dick along into his fight. 

“Two point one million,” Dick said suddenly, looking up. 

Jason pretended to have been staring at the floor lamp. “What?” 

“The cops seized about fifteen kilos of cocaine,” he continued, tapping his laptop. “So, about two point one million dollars.” 

“Boy Wonder sure knows his cocaine.”

“What can I say?” Dick shrugged, lips pulled tight. “Bruce had me memorize the ins and outs of the drug trade. Just in case I had to go undercover, or something like that.” 

“How thoughtful of him,” Jason muttered. The words came out more bitter than he intended. Old habits, he figured. 

Dick sent him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Bruce has his faults, but he and Roman are _ not _the same.”

“Did I say they were?” 

_ “Jason.” _

“Fine,” he said, standing. As he walked into the kitchen, he slammed his mug down on the counter. Coffee splashed onto the webbing of his fingers. Not hot enough to burn, but just unexpected enough to ignite an inexplicable anger inside Jason. “They’re not the same! I _ know _ they’re not the same! Are you happy now?” 

Dick twisted around to look at him. “Really, Jay?” he asked. “I thought you were done being an asshole.” 

Jason took a long breath, steadying himself on the edge of the counter as he waited for the heat to dissipate. Liquid dripped down his fingers onto the gray surface of the countertop. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

A moment passed. There was the sound of Dick standing, walking over. Jason kept his eyes fixed on the surface in front of him. _ Just can’t keep my fucking mouth shut, _he thought. 

“Hey,” Dick said, appearing next to him. “What is it?” 

“What is what?”

“The reason you’re all tense.”

Jason snorted. “I’m not _ tense.” _

“Jason.”

“Fine.” He sighed as he grabbed a dish cloth and started dabbing at the coffee spills. “If I’m tense, then you’re tired.” 

“I’m not tired.”

“Then I’m not tense.” 

Dick paused for a moment, jaw clenching. Finally, he grabbed Jason’s wrist, took the towel from his hands, and set it down. Jason looked at him, half-wanting to turn away, half-wanting to draw his body in until there was not an atom between them. 

“I’m not going to argue about this,” Dick said. 

Jason didn’t want to either. “I don’t either.”

“Did I do something?” 

“It’s not your fault, Dick. I just—” He chewed the inside of his cheek, staring out over the counter, at the rays of sunlight falling into the apartment. Speck motes floated aimlessly in the brightness, bouncing whenever a soft breeze blew in through the balcony door. It should have been so easy to beg him to stay back and let Jason get hurt in his stead, to make him promise that he wouldn’t put himself in harm’s way for Jason’s sake. 

It should have been easy. But it wasn’t. 

“I guess it feels like it will never be enough,” Jason finished. It was close to the truth.

“Oh.” Dick’s brow softened. “Yeah. I know.”

“He’s still out there.”

“I know.”

“And you’re looking for him,” Jason said. He tried to keep his words even, tried not to make it seem like he was accusing Dick of being reckless even though being with Jason Peter Todd was an act of recklessness in and of itself. 

“Of course I am,” Dick replied. “Like I said, you don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t _ have _to do this alone.” 

A part of Jason understood this to be true, just as another part knew that he’d have floundered without Dick’s help. And yet he couldn’t quite agree. At least, not fully. 

In the end, he said nothing. 

Sometime during the silence a pair of arms wrapped around his midsection, pulling him into the warmth of an embrace. Jason breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of mint, coffee, and that deeper, unplaceable scent that belonged to Dick Grayson, and Dick Grayson only. He thought of Slade’s katana slicing into Dick’s face, his own fingers holding a batarang against Dick’s neck. The urge to apologize again lingered at the tip of his tongue. 

“Did I do that?” Dick murmured. 

“What?”

“This.” He brushed the tips of his fingers down Jason’s neck. 

_ Right. _Jason swallowed, staring at the tile floor. “No,” he replied dryly. “That was the other guy I’m fucking.” 

Dick’s hands fell down his back, leaving trails of heat in their wake. “Mmm. So I’m just a guy you’re fucking?” he asked. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Jason said, thinking, _ you mean everything to me. _

“I know.” Dick smiled, kissing him gently. Jason keened into the touch, his whole body once again rolling with the painful urge to draw him closer.

This time, he did. 

“Love you,” Jason muttered, allowing the closeness of Dick’s body to melt him where he stood. Mint. Coffee. _ Dick. _He ached to fall into him like some sort of possession, if only to carry him far away from Gotham, from Roman, from harm. 

“I love you too.” Dick squeezed him once, then pulled away. The sudden absence of his body froze Jason solid. “What’s this about?”

_ Everything. _“Nothing.”

Dick’s blue irises flashed with something Jason couldn’t place. Concern, maybe. Or resignation. “Alright,” he said, walking over to the sofa to grab his computer. It went into the bag on the floor, nestling between piles of loose paper at least two inches thick. 

Jason watched him, jaw clenching. It was hard, keeping his distance from the other man. Everything inside him was telling him to be Dick’s shadow, to follow him so closely they might as well be joined at the hip. 

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Nowhere.” Dick downed the rest of his coffee, then sighed loudly. “For a run.”

“A run.” 

“Clears my head,” he replied, taking his bag into the bedroom. 

Jason followed. “Just for a run?” he asked, and Dick laughed. 

“No,” he said. He slipped his shirt over his head before crumpling it up and throwing it at Jason. “I’m gonna take down _ all _ of Gotham crime in a muscle tee and gym shorts.”

“Funny.”

Dick shrugged, staring out the bedroom window. Though Jason couldn’t see his face, he could picture his expression. It was visible in the way he held his shoulders, the tight grip of his fist around air. Quiet, contemplative. 

“You don’t need to worry about me, Jay,” he said. “I’m not—I’m not just anyone.” 

_ No, _ Jason thought. _ You’re not. _

But he kept his mouth shut and let Dick go. 

After a few minutes of staring at the door, Jason grabbed his own computer and got to work. The plans Tim had found were buried in there somewhere, next to all the other shit they could find on Roman, and Roman’s gangs, and Roman’s business, and everything else. SIONIS INDUSTRIES PUBLIC PLAN. He didn’t know why he was looking at it—this was nothing new to anyone, let alone _ him— _but in a way it was a comfort: 

This will be nothing unfamiliar. You’ve done all of this already, and more.

Maybe he could still break in. Even if Roman changed his codes, Jason could break them. And the guards would be no issue, either—he had taken down several dozen over the course of his training with Cade, and could take down even more now. Up the front stairwell. Break the 12C code. Slip through the old offices to the secondary stairwell. Break the 15A code. Take down the remaining guards. Blow Roman’s door wide open. 

Just one well-timed assault and he could have the monster cornered. 

He pictured emptying a barrel into Roman’s skull. 

He pictured wrapping his hands around Roman’s throat, squeezing until something popped and the man’s eyes rolled. 

He pictured hitting him, again and again and again, until he could taste Roman’s blood and feel gray matter slipping between his bare fingers. 

_ You can’t hurt him, _ he would scream. _ You can’t hurt anyone anymore. _

And then he’d burn it to the ground, all of it. The penthouse. The office. The warehouses and ships and shipping containers full of all the shit that spread through Gotham like an infection: drugs, weapons, monsters. And then it would be over. And then he wouldn’t have to worry anymore. And then Dick—

—would hate him, because he’d broken that motherfucking _ rule. _

“Shit,” Jason muttered, pushing the computer away from him. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the white screen as if something in the pixels could fix the impossible. 

As he stared, a notification appeared on the right-hand side of the screen. New message. Swallowing the dryness in his mouth, Jason opened up the messaging system and stared at the lone, unread line. 

His stomach dropped to his feet. 

It was supposed to be a secure system. Babs set it up for him, said it was the one all of them used. Hard to trace back to one computer, easy to falsify point of origin. And it _ was, _ it really was. Jason had been using it for weeks now, to contact the gangs still loyal to him and make sure they gave him the percentages he had demanded from them. It was _ secure. _ It _ worked. _

And yet, something else had gotten through. 

I’M GETTING BORED OF OUR LITTLE GAME. 

No sender. No date. No time. Nothing, other than a single attachment Jason could not help but stare at, waiting for his heart to burst through his ribcage and splatter over the screen:

image.jpeg

He inhaled. Exhaled. Then, steadying his hand even though there was no one there to see, he opened it. 

The picture was him, standing atop a building not one street over from his current location. It was late at night; the yellow streetlights washed over his body armor. And next to him, far too close, was Dick. 

He couldn’t breathe. Every time he tried the air calcified in his mouth, rubbing his throat raw. And through the chaos his conscious mind began to scream: _Roman knows._ _Roman knows and he’s going to end it. Kill me. Kill Dick. _

A snarl tore from his throat, clearing the obstacles in his path. Jason breathed quickly, filling up the empty space in his chest, feeling heat replace the ice that had rocked him to the core. The heat twisted. Expanded. Curled upward toward his throat, where it began to claw its way onto his tongue. He flew to his feet. 

“Fuck!” he yelled, driving his fist into the wall. The plaster crack beneath his knuckles. Pain ricocheted up his wrist, spreading toward his elbow. 

Without missing a beat, he stormed into the bedroom and started suiting up. Fuck the Bats and their rules. Fuck his happiness with Dick. Roman _ can’t _ win. Roman _ won’t _win. 

Strange, he noted as he tightened the straps over his thighs, how easy the decision came to him. Like a switch had gone off in his head. It was so simple, so breathtakingly simple, when it was boiled down to that choice.

But first, he had to see a man about a contract.

♟♟♟

It took very little time tracking him down. Or at least, less time than expected. Who knew that mercenaries could be found easily, once you put out enough zeros?

The meeting place felt almost hackneyed. A rooftop in the diamond district, with clear views of Roman’s penthouse. At night, of course. And the high-rises were glittering around him, and the cars below were humming gently, and a soft breeze stirred the hair around his ears as he waited. And waited. And waited.

Even through the darkness Jason could see the individual windows of Roman’s penthouse. Hell, he could even make out the room where he used to sleep, maybe. Close enough. It was one of a cluster along the center left, overlooking the East side of Gotham. 

_ Broken nose. Clean skin. Slick clothing. Waking on a soft bed, in silk sheets. Falling into strict routine. Getting struck. Again. Again. Do not disappoint me. Again. You are doing well. _

Jason swallowed the lump in his throat and looked down at the streets instead. As a child he never roamed the boulevards of the Diamond District, but the mere sight of roads and alleys and streetlights was enough. Those memories were digestible. Those memories, dark as they were, _ belonged _to him. Because he was himself on the streets. Sure he was a street rat, torn and dirty and bloody and halfway starved, but he had his game, and he had his goals. 

_ Education is liberation. _

“Jason?” 

He jumped at the sudden voice, fists clenched and ready to swing. They loosened, briefly, when his mind put the pieces together, then tightened once more. 

“You followed me,” he said. 

Dick tugged off his mask, revealing a face hardened with something between pain and anger. “You left,” he replied sharply. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“How’d you find me?”

“Your phone.” 

_ “Fuck,” _ Jason swore, looking away. “Dick, I—”

“Cut the crap,” Dick snapped. “I’m not just some civie boy toy you can run away from. You need me.” 

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Didn’t want you to—” He groaned in frustration, throwing his head back as if to curse the sky. “Shit, Jason. I get hurt all the time. It’s part of the goddamn job!”

Clenching his jaw, Jason resisted the urge to look once more at the penthouse. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me,” he said quietly. 

“Jason.”

“This isn’t your fight.”

_ “Jason.” _

“If anyone deserves to get hurt, it’s me.”

“Jason, god damn it, _ listen to me!” _ A hand grabbed his collar and forced him around. Blue eyes burned with fury and some other emotion Jason couldn’t quite place. “I’m like you,” Dick said. “I know—I _ know _ what it’s like to feel like the world’s your responsibility. Fuck, I’m just as guilty as you are. Maybe worse. But can’t you get it through your thick skull that _ I don’t want you to get hurt either?” _

Jason hadn’t thought about that. Of course he didn’t. 

“I’m not trying to get hurt,” he muttered. 

“Like hell you’re not.”

“It’s just—” Jason took a long breath, filling up his lungs with the cold night air. The penthouse lights were gold against the black. “You’re going to follow me no matter what, aren’t you.” 

Dick nodded, jaw clenched tight. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.” 

Silence followed. Relative silence. There was still the white noise of the city: cars, horns, birds, wind, the buzz of anticipation that came before things fell apart. The hair on the back of Jason’s neck pricked upright. He wondered if Roman had eyes on them. Camera lenses. Scope rifles. 

_ I’M GETTING BORED OF OUR LITTLE GAME. _

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said once again, so quietly he was not sure that Dick could hear him at all. The wind seemed to pluck his words from the air, send them tumbling over the edge of the roof. 

But Dick seemed to hear him anyway. “And I don’t want _ you _ to get hurt,” he replied. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” 

Jason said nothing as he scanned the roof for a foreign shadow. The urge inside him to retort—_ of course I know what I’m doing— _ lessened with each passing second. Did he know what he was doing? This whole thing had arisen from a whim,from the desperate desire to save Dick even if it meant breaking his heart. 

God. _ Breaking his heart. _How fucking corny. The old Jason would have hated that. 

Dick waited for another moment, then shook his head. “He’s not going to listen to you,” he said. 

“He will.”

“No. I mean—” Dick sighed loudly, crossing his arms over his chest. “He doesn’t care about you.” 

Jason sent him a look. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

“You don’t know him like I know him. If I’m there, then he’ll—you need me.” 

“To do what?” Jason asked. “What could you possibly do that I can’t?” 

This time, it was Dick who stayed silent. Despite the darkness between them, Jason could sense the other man’s consternation, could imagine him chewing his lower lip and staring at the dirtied surface of the roof. Reluctance and uncertainty radiated from his posture. Each breath was slow; controlled. Jason opened his mouth to speak before clamping it shut, sensing a presence behind his own. 

Slade Wilson. 

“I hope you know you’re fucking stupid,” the mercenary said, his face a mask of disinterest. He wasn’t wearing any visible weapons, which concerned more than it comforted. 

Jason swallowed, ignoring the sudden itch in his scarred neck, the way his organs lurched upward into his throat. Maybe Slade could see the hesitation on his face. Maybe he could not. “A bold thing to say to your future employer,” he replied. 

Slade’s gaze narrowed, his upper lip curling into an almost-sneer. “You’re still breathing because I allow it,” he said, the slightest hint of disdain crawling into his voice. “Grayson knows that. Do you?”

At the mention of his name, Dick stiffened, then pretended he had not. “Slade,” he said coolly.

“Grayson.” Slade cocks his head to one side, giving Dick a look that makes Jason’s stomach clench. The sneer is gone, replaced by something far more insidious. One brow is raised; his eye glints with hunger. “Tell me, Birdie. What’s in this for you?”

“None of your business.” 

Jason stepped between the two of them, raising his chin to meet the man’s face. “This isn’t about him,” he said. “This is about a contract.”

Slade chuckled softly. “Oh, you think so?” he asked. “I could have shown up for any number of reasons. Maybe I showed up for him.” 

Heat flared in Jason’s chest. _ “Shut up,” _ he hissed, meaning, _ don’t you dare. Don’t you dare touch him. Don’t you dare _ look _ at him. _

But when Slade took a step forward, he flinched. God damn it. Jason bares his teeth as a cover-up, fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t come here to fight. He didn’t _ want _to fight. The next time Slade stepped forward, he held his ground. 

_ Chin up. Back straight. Front knee bent, just so, to tell him that you’re ready. _

“Nice little pup you’ve got here,” Slade said to Dick. “When did you start fucking? Before or after he ran away from Sionis?” 

Dick cut Jason off before he could spit out a messy reply. “Having fun, Slade?” he asked, his voice impossibly even. If there was any anger in him, any frustration or disgust or fear, there was no hint of it on his face. 

Slade’s face doesn’t change. “Quite a bit,” he replied.

Then Dick was the one to come closer, keeping his eyes fixed forward even as Slade leered down on him. Jason felt a surge of protectiveness inside him—almost acted on it—but then Dick sent him the briefest, nearly imperceptible look: _ I know what I’m doing. Stand down. _

Jason cursed himself as he did nothing. 

“You wouldn’t come here if you were intending to kill us,” Dick said, coming to a stop directly in front of the mercenary. “So. What. Do. You. Want?”

“Mmm.” Slade head tilted to one side as the corners of his lips spread into an ugly smile. “What do you think?” he asked, voice _ dripping. _

Jason bristled. “Back off,” he growled, jaw so tense he wonders if it will snap off. _ Get away from him get the fuck away from him. _

Slade doesn’t even glance in his direction. “Protective, are we?” he asks. “Grayson always did love a little bit of that _ take charge _attitude.”

“I said, _ back off.” _

“I don’t think so.”

If Slade were to lay a finger on him, Jason would lose it. He could feel his anger bubbling up inside him, hot and tight and seeping through his pores. And _ unease, _ and _ frustration… _Fuck. Half an inch from an explosion, and god damn if the mercenary didn’t sense it too. 

“I gotta hand it to you, kid,” Slade muttered. He did look at Jason this time, his eye lingering uncomfortably while his hand went to his belt, fingering the handle of his knife. “You never fail to amaze me with your predictability.” 

“Are you going to talk to us or not?” Dick snapped. 

Something fell over the mercenary’s gaze. “Eager, are we?”

Dick’s jaw clenched. 

“Fine.” The mercenary sighed as his hand fell away from his knife. Looking once more at Jason, he said, “Talk.” 

_ Fucking finally. _He took a small breath, held it until he knew his words would be steady. “You take the money—”

“I will.” Slade crossed his arms over his chest. “Now.” 

“What?” 

“Make the transfer. Unless you don’t know how?” 

Gritting his teeth, Jason pulled out his phone and started the transfer, holding it up as his thumbprint approved it. “Happy?” he hissed. 

Slade raised an eyebrow. His look was enough: _ go on. _

“You leave us alone. Take Roman’s men out of the equation.” 

“Roman’s men?” He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Do you take me for an idiot?” 

Jason didn’t allow himself the freedom to react. “I take you for someone who knows a good deal,” he replied.

Perhaps the mercenary was smiling, or perhaps that was merely a trick of the shadow. Either way, Jason’s organs twisted in disgust, in anger, in the sudden desire to break every bone in the man’s body. 

“If you really wanted my attention, you’d have offered more than money,” Slade replied. He crossed his arms over his chest, his face twisting into something lecherous. “Isn’t that right, _ son?” _

“It looks like we got your attention anyway, _ Slade,” _Dick said coolly. 

“You have. Now find a way to keep it.” 

Jason’s lip curled over his teeth. “I’ve paid you _ more _than enough,” he snapped. 

“True. But you could have offered something else.” Slade turned to leer once more at Dick, whose face was stony; expressionless. “Or someone else.” 

A growl tore from Jason’s throat. “Fuck you.” 

But Slade remained unbothered. “What do you say, kid? Come with me, and let your boy toy clean up the mess he made of Gotham. ‘Bout time you learned some manners.” 

Dick didn’t even flinch. His lack of reaction was an instrument of composure, or at least it should have been. Every muscle in Jason’s body remained locked, nearly trembling with the heat that forced its way through him. 

_ Fuck you fuck you fuck you— _

“If I wanted games, I would have gone to Nygma,” Dick said. “He gave you the money.” 

“He did.” Slade nodded. “And what if I just take it and kill you both? Perhaps it _ is _ time to end our little _ relationship.” _

“We both know you won’t do that. ” 

The man hummed, a non-reaction. For a moment none of them spoke. And then the moment passed, and Slade uncrossed his arms. 

“I’ll end my contract with Roman,” he said. “No more, no less. I’m not playing a part in your little family feud.” 

“Do it now,” Jason said.

“Now?”

“I want to know you’ll keep your word.” 

A derisive chuckle. “Didn’t your boyfriend tell you? I’m an _ honorable _man,” Slade replied, but pulled a phone from his belt nonetheless. He dialed. Held it to his ear. 

It was a long five seconds before anything happened. 

“Your boy wanted me to tell you that our contract’s over,” Slade grunted, staring directly at Jason as he spoke. _ Happy now? _“We’re done.”

On the other end of the line, Jason could hear silence. Then, rage. Roman’s words were anything but audible, but the gist cut through the distance between them. Slade took them in stride—not moving, not smirking, just _ standing _there, keeping his eye locked on Jason’s face. 

“Of course,” the mercenary said, after a moment. His mouth twitched into a smile. “Let me know how it turns out.”

When the call ended, Roman’s voice rang in Jason’s ears. He could picture the man’s face: mouth twisted into a sneer, brows pressed together as he spat and snarled. And then a different face flashed before his eyes, one that was cool and collected and much more dangerous. _ Looks like the innocent flower, but acts like the serpent under it. _

It had gotten Jason once. He wouldn’t let it get him again, even if it meant losing Dick.

“I take it we’re done here,” Slade said, tucking his phone away. 

Jason met his eye, nodding. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over his face. “Right. Don’t contact me again—” He gave Dick a knowing look. “—Not unless you have a _ better offer.” _

“Goodbye, Slade,” Dick snapped. 

The mercenary’s lips twitched upward. “Until next time, kid,” he replied, crossing the expanse of the roof in a few quick strides. A second later he was gone. Shadow. 

Neither of them moved. Then Dick released a shaky breath, and smiled softly.

“You can’t let him get under your skin,” he said. “That’s how he wins, before you even throw your first punch.” 

“Dick,” Jason breathed, too worn to say more. Roman’s face still lingered in his vision. Waiting. Daring. Gloating. 

“I’m fine. Really, Jay, I’m—”

He could not finish. Jason’s arms were around him, squeezing until he felt a warm gasp against the side of his neck, until he remembered the photograph. 

The embrace ended as quickly as it began. 

Dick’s face was tinged with red. “Jason—”

“You’re not wearing a mask,” he grunted, turning his back on the penthouse. A sickness spread slowly through his veins, starting in his neck before falling, inevitably, to his heart. 

_ Not safe. _

“Slade knows me,” Dick said. “There’s no point.” 

“Anyone could have seen.” 

Dick gestured around them. “Not without night vision.” 

_ Standing atop a building. Late at night. Yellow streetlights washing over his body armor. Dick, far too close. I’M GETTING BORED OF OUR LITTLE GAME. _

“Please,” Jason said softly. It was all he could say. 

At least Dick seemed to understand that. 

They didn’t talk much, on their way back, not even to mock Roman’s loss. Dick was watching him—Jason could feel his eyes on his face, burrowing beneath his skin, but no matter what he did he could not bring himself to meet his gaze. It was as if his own eyes were weighted to the ground, along with the rest of him. 

After he washed the night from his skin, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The scars Roman had given him, direct and indirect, were too many to count. Cuts along his chest and calves. Cigarette burns on his arms. A stab wound to his shoulder, his thigh, his arm. Burned, puckered on his legs. A starburst on his neck. The long, thin scar between his wrist and elbow.

His gut lurched.

“You okay?” Dick called. 

Jason blinked, clearing his throat. “Yeah,” he replied, unable to get away from himself fast enough. His next actions came by rote: tug on sweatpants, turn off the light, collapse on the bed, close his eyes, and pretend to sleep. Dick joined him soon after, settling into the crook of Jason’s body like he was meant to be there.

Forty-five minutes passed before Jason knew Dick was asleep. 

He slid out of bed slowly, taking each inch at a time before his feet touched the carpet and Dick was still immoble. Then he walked out, grabbed his laptop, and logged on. 

_ Come on, _ he thought, chewing his thumbnail as he watched the screen load. _ Come on. Come on. Say something. Give me something. _

When he saw the unread message, it was as if he shut down. No fear. No rage. No hate. Numb. 

LA PEDINA. 1900. COME ALONE. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +10000 points to everyone who finds the Shakespeare reference.  
+100000 points if you find the _Twisted_ (Starkid) reference.


	24. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh boy oh boy.
> 
> I don't have the final chapter count yet, but we are 100% in the final stretch of this baby. Strap in, folks. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** non-consentual nudity, abuse, gaslighting, violence, _more_ old guys being creepy.
> 
> Edit: This chapter now has art! [Go look at it and tell Hari that it's amazing, because it is.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676431)

Jason slipped out of the apartment twenty minutes to seven, leaving nothing but a note behind. Just a simple message, nothing Dick would worry about. 

_ Heading out. Be back soon. I love you. _

The last part he almost didn’t write. His pen had been hovering over the page for nearly a minute, the nub not quite gracing the paper. To leave such a thing would make Dick suspicious—a whole can of worms Jason was too guilty to open—but on the other hand… He did not want to think about the other hand. 

In the end he wrote _ I love you _hastily, as an afterthought, thinking not for the first time about the edge. Not the end, but the moment before: the split second when he is plummeting through the sky and sees the ground rushing toward him. No more tomorrow. No more future with Dick. No more.

After, Jason chose not to think at all. 

A meeting. That’s all it was: a meeting. Jason had been to dozens of these over the years, and knew them play by play. He need only go, talk to Roman, and leave. 

He would be back soon. He _ would. _

As he rode toward the Diamond District, the air was cool and spoke of autumn. It beat against him like fists, stinging his skin pink and drying out his mouth. A single drop of condensation landed on the visor of his helmet. Though there was more than an hour left of daylight, the clouds were already tinged with crimson; long shadows spilled over the roads. Jason took it all in slowly. No reacting. No reflecting. Just pure, unadulterated observation. 

It was far too late to turn back. 

By the time Jason stepped off of his bike, his heart was halfway up his throat. His hands trembled as he lifted his helmet off his head and locked it, gracelessly, to the bike. Again he chose not to think of these things. Instead he pushed his hair away from his face, took a deep breath, and faced the twin doors in front of him. 

LA PEDINA. 

_ What are you doing? _screamed his mind as his feet carried him toward the restaurant. His bike was now twenty feet away from him. Twenty-five. Thirty. 

No quick exits. 

Another deep breath. Jason’s hand found the door handle, curled around the lukewarm metal. As he tugged it open, he cast one more look at the sky, as if he might see a face peering down at him from a distant rooftop. But he saw only cloud and stone.

He really was alone. 

The interior of the restaurant was exactly in line with Roman’s taste. Sleek glass walls, cold stone floors, crystalline lamps falling from the high ceilings. The color palette was a mixture of light and dark, with just enough black to tip the scales in dark’s favor. No one but him was wearing jeans. 

Jason stared at it all for too long, hating that he knew exactly what message it was sending. He could hear Roman’s voice plain as day in his ears. _ My turf, my terms. _It was just like the first time he stepped into the penthouse: he had become an outsider once again. Like nothing had changed at all. 

Clenching his jaw, Jason swore he would not let this unnerve him. 

“Mr. Todd?” 

He looked over. A young man stared at him with a blank expression, his hands folded casually in front of him. Probably a waiter, or a host. Possibly not. 

“Yes?” 

The waiter gestured toward the other side of the restaurant, where a dark glass wall rose above the patrons. Jason could not see through to the other side. “Come with me, please.” 

“Right,” Jason said, clearing his throat as he stepped after him. _ Do not think, do not think, do not— _

The waiter led him deeper into the restaurant, all while conversations swam around his head. Through the tables. Down a short hallway. A left. 

“In here,” the waiter said, one hand motioning to the dark doors before them. 

Jason stepped forward and looked at the door. Just one inch, maybe two. So little space between them. 

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _

He pushed open the door.

It was a room that was similar to the first, albeit much smaller. The dark glass wall from before separated it from the main dining room, though from this direction the glass was less opaque. Jason counted six men in various locations, a few he recognized, a few he did not. There were polished black chairs, a few abstract paintings, and one long table. And at the head of the table sat a man in a mask. 

Roman. 

At once Jason filled with such intense heat that he could not breathe. Everything passed before his eyes like flashes of a storm: the beatings, the bullets, the abuse, the deaths. And then, as quickly as they came, the thoughts were gone, leaving nothing but a calm rage in their wake. 

The room cooled his burning skin. Jason met Roman’s eyes and held strong, feeling the hint of a smile begin to crawl over his face. 

He was standing. He was staring. He was alive. 

Behind his mask, Roman was smiling. Jason could recognize the crinkle around his eyes, the way they move without betraying any humor or kindness. Just like before. Only this time it did not shake him.

“Jason,” Roman said. His voice was slick in its indifference. “How good to see you again, after all this time.”

“Roman.”

“Been making a name for yourself, have you? Off building an empire, stealing my property, _killing_ _vigilantes_…” 

The way he said it made Jason’s stomach turn. 

“What do you want?” he asked coolly. No anger. Just words. 

Shaking his head, Roman laughed quietly. “Manners, Jason. I thought I taught you better than that.” 

_ Fuck you, _Jason thought. It must have been visible on his face, because the smile disappeared from Roman’s eyes. 

“I see,” he sighed, leaning over the table to rest on his elbows. “If you’re so eager to get to it, then let’s cut to the chase. Strip.” 

Jason paused. “What?” 

“I said, _ strip,” _ Roman said again, as if it meant nothing at all. “All I ask for is a little privacy. How am I to know that your little _ friend _isn’t listening?” 

“I’m not wearing anything.” 

“Mmm, but that isn’t correct, is it? Because you are wearing lots of things. There could be any number of devices hidden there.” 

Clenching his jaw, Jason shook his head. “Roman—”

“Strip,” Roman said again, motioning to the men against the walls, “or I’ll have them strip you. Please, Little Wolf. I’d hate to start out on the wrong foot.” 

A moment passed. Jason could feel the heat flare inside him again, pressing against the underside of his skin. He glanced at the glass wall, at the diners on the other side, and the heat turned to sparks. An intimidation tactic. _ Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let _ him _ get to you. _

“Fine,” he said conversationally, tugging off his jacket and handing it to the closest man. 

“Good boy.”

Jason tried not to flinch as he kicked off his boots. “Funny. I don’t recall you asking this of your other associates, Roman.” 

“I don’t recall ever considering you my _ associate, _ Jason.” 

His shirt came off next, leaving his chest bare to the room’s chill. No thinking. Just let the actions take over. Jeans undone. Letting them fall to the floor. Stepping out. Standing in nothing but his boxers. That’s all it was; a series of actions one after another after another. 

“Happy?” he asked, tossing his jeans to the side. It took a great deal of energy to stand straight, to pretend he could not feel a dozen eyes digging into his skin. 

Roman’s smirk was obvious despite the mask. “Almost.” 

It took Jason a moment to register what he meant. Now the heat crept over his face, across the tips of his ears. “No,” he said. “You’re insane.” 

“Come now, Jason. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. No need to make a fuss.” 

A moment passed. Jason stared, digging his feet into the cold stone floor. Then, gritting his teeth, he slipped off his boxers and let them fall to the ground. Naked. His eyes darted to the diners on the other side of the glass, to the smug look in Roman’s gaze. Humiliation gathered in his chest. 

“Are we good?” he asked curtly, crossing his arms over his chest if only to give them something to do. 

Roman hummed softly. “Well,” he said. “Now we know what your behavior is compensating for.” 

Jason fought to maintain a blank expression. “I said, _ are we good?” _

“Oh, I am. Can’t say the same for you.” The smile returned to Roman’s eyes. “Tell me, _ Jason. _How many of those scars belong to me?” 

Dick’s voice echoed in his ears. _ You can’t let him get under your skin. That’s how he wins, before you even throw your first punch. _

Jason took a deep breath in, forcing the tension from his upper body. He tried to ignore the movement on the other side of the glass. “I think we’d both agree that you have nothing of mine,” he said, meeting Roman’s eyes. “But I have lots of things that belong to you. Well, _ belonged _ to you. That’s what this little _ shindig _ is about, isn’t it?” 

Something dark flashed over Roman’s face. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re a little boy playing a game he doesn’t understand.”

“I’d say I understand it pretty well,” Jason replied. _ “The one with money is the one who rules the board. _ That’s what you said, right?” He let the corners of his lips tug upward into a smile. “Remind me: how much did the cops take from you?” 

A moment passed. Roman leaned forward, threading his gloved fingers together. “You seem confident,” he said. 

“Maybe I am.”

“How do you know I didn’t invite you here to kill you?”

_ Maybe you did. Maybe you will. _

But Jason merely shrugged, pretending his pulse was not throbbing with doubt. “You wouldn’t.”

“My, my. Someone is certainly sure of himself.”

“I know you, Roman,” Jason said coolly. “What you want. How you work. And I know I’m more valuable alive than dead. So…” He shrugged again, trying not to feel the heat of eyes on his bare skin. 

Roman did not move. “I must say, it’s nice to see you’ve grown a pair,” he replied, his gaze crawling down Jason’s abdomen. “Metaphorically, at least.”

Jason uncrossed his arms, ignoring the pin-pricks of creeping over his skin. The cool air of the room was starting to get to him. Already the soles of his feet had gone numb. “You called me here,” he said. “And now I’m here.”

“Yes, that would appear to be true.” 

“So tell me what you want from me.” 

Leaning back, Roman tapped his fingers on the table. The dull sound sliced through the quiet. “Do you think you’re in control, here?” he asked. 

Gesturing to his naked form, Jason replied, “Do I look like I’m in control?”

“No. You look like a whore.”

Jason’s face burned. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked. 

“Tell me, does your _ friend _pay to fuck you, or are you giving it out for free now?”

“What do you want, Roman?”

“For free, then.”

“What. Do. You. Want?”

Roman laughed suddenly, a sound so stark it seemed to shake the room. “You’re a smart boy, Jason. Figure it out.” 

Jason opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off. 

“Do take a seat. Wait—” He held up a hand as Jason stepped forward, nodding at one of the men Jason could not see. “Put something down, please. God knows where he’s been.” 

It was getting easier, letting the comments slide off of him. Jason worked up a blank face to cover his own, waiting for the go ahead from Roman, hating that he knew his cheeks were pink._ You can’t let him get under your skin. _

“There,” Roman said, as Jason sat. “Now, can I tempt you with something to drink?”

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _

“Very kind of you,” he said, forcing a smile so sweet it almost sickened him. He tried not to look at the utensils laid out in front of him, at the knife glinting in the lamplight. A test. Maybe a taunt. 

“Red wine? White? Or something stronger?”

“Red is fine.” 

Roman hummed, nodding once more at the men against the wall. “You heard him,” he said, and two of them left without saying another word. “Have you figured it out yet?” 

It took Jason a moment to realize he was being spoken to. “Elaborate.” 

“What I want. Do you know yet, or are you just that thick?”

“I’m assuming you want your money.” 

“Partial credit.”

“You want control of the gangs.” 

Roman sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I thought I taught you better than this, Little Wolf,” he said. “Try again. What do I want?” 

Jason’s fists clenched at his sides. He stared for half a moment, piecing together his reply, before shaking his head. “What’s your goal here, Roman?” he asked, mimicking the man’s relaxed posture. It was the best he could do, the only thing he could do. “Did you really think I’d give you anything you asked for? After all the shit you put me through?” 

“Says the boy who stripped at the barest hint of a threat.”

“I’m not afraid to be vulnerable,” Jason shot back, looking pointedly at Roman’s men, at the holsters on their belts. “Are you?”

Behind his mask, Roman’s eyes narrowed. 

“Right,” Jason said. “I thought so.”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you.” Not a question.

“I _ know _exactly how smart I am,” Jason replied, just as he heard the door opening behind him. Soft footsteps tread over the floor, slowing as they approached his seat. 

It was a waitress this time. She glanced once at Jason, lips parting in surprise at his state, before quickly looking away and setting down a wine glass in front of him. Her hands trembled almost as much as her jaw. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

The waitress nodded, walking silently over to Roman before placing his drink next to him. God. Like watching a mouse approach a falcon. It was clear from her actions that she was trying to walk quickly but casually away from them, but her pace betrayed her true emotions. 

“Wait,” Roman said, and all the color drained from her cheeks. 

_ No, _Jason thought. But he remained rooted in place, unable to do anything other than communicate his apology through his eyes. 

“Is everything alright?” she asked, slowly. 

Roman was smirking behind his mask, but not at the waitress. He eyed Jason knowingly as he spoke, one finger tracing the rim of his wine glass. “What’s your name?” he asked.

A squeak: “Anna.” 

“Anna. How lovely. We’ll be seeing you again shortly, I’m sure?” 

Anna nodded, clutching the tray against her chest. “Of course, sir,” she replied.

“Very good. You may go.”

More hurried footsteps. The door shut with a _ click; _Jason shuddered inexplicably at the sound. 

“You look worried,” Roman said. Holding the stem of his wine glass between two fingers, he swirled the dark liquid around before taking a delicate sip. “Who could have guessed that Gotham’s newest crime lord has a soft heart?” 

Jason blinked away his emotion. “You’re changing the subject,” he said.

“I’m making conversation.” 

“You’re making accusations.” 

Roman tutted mockingly, taking another sip of wine. “Finally, you’re catching onto something.” 

Jason didn’t reply. He could sense the presence of the men behind him, feel their eyes sliding over his shoulders. His pulse had slowed somewhat, though a lump remained lodged in his throat. _ Get out. Just leave. He doesn’t want you dead just yet. So go. _

Slowly, he picked up the wine glass and studied his warped reflection in the mahogany liquid. Heavy in his hands. When he raised it to his mouth he let the wine wet his lips, but did not drink, all-too aware of Roman’s gaze on his face. 

“Do you really think I would drug you?” Roman asked, when Jason set down the glass.

His reply was curt. “Yes.” 

“I see.” 

“You’re a snake, Roman.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes,” Jason said again. 

An amused smile crept into Roman’s eyes. “Why did you come, Jason? Was it arrogance? Vengeance? Or something else?” He began dragging a finger around the rim of his glass, circling it slowly. “Tell me about your friend.” 

An electric shock shot down Jason’s spine at the mention of Dick. _ Shit. _But he composed himself quickly, pretending to be interested in the light catching on the dark tablecloth. 

“I think you know everything you need to know,” he replied, shrugging. 

“Then let’s run through things, just to make sure we’re on the same page.” Roman withdrew his hand from the glass and looked at one of his men. “Johnson, if you would,” he said, gesturing to Jason. 

The man he called, Johnson, stepped forward and dropped something in front of him. An envelope. Jason’s stomach clenched as he reached for it, slowly, wrapping his fingers around a collection of thick papers inside.

They were just what he thought they would be. Pictures. 

He thumbed through a few of them, slowly, seeing himself, Dick—_ masked, _ he noticed, his body flooding with relief—and the two of them together. With gang leaders. With dealers. Alone. 

Swallowing, he forced a neutral expression over his face. “Did you have Deathstroke take these?” he asked, pushing them aside as if they were nothing. “Before I bought him out, obviously.” 

Roman’s posture shifted ever-so-slightly, the briefest indication of annoyance. “I have more than one mercenary at my disposal,” he said. 

“But he’s the best, right? I mean, clearly that’s what _ you _ think, seeing as you hired him to track me down. How’d that turn out, by the way?” 

Silence. Roman’s brow turned downward as he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I should have them beat you,” he said. 

“But you won’t,” Jason replied. 

“But I won’t. Do you know why?” 

“Please. Tell me.” 

The smile returned to Roman’s eyes. “Because I want the best for you, Jason. I _ care _about you.”

“Bullshit,” Jason snapped. 

“It’s true. I’m beginning to—” Roman held up a hand, cutting off Jason’s derisive retort. “—I’m beginning to take pride in what you’ve accomplished. Turning gangs against me? Clever. Quite clever. And let’s not forget!” He picked up his wine glass and raised it toward him in a mock toast. “Jason Todd: the boy who _ killed _ Nightwing. Who _ ever _could have predicted that?” 

Jason gave no reply. 

“You deserve to come out of this feeling good about yourself. Better, even.” 

“Well you’re doing a fan-fucking-tastic job of that,” Jason replied after a moment, gesturing to himself. “Aren’t you.” 

Roman shrugged. “Like I said. Your little friend might be listening. Where is he, anyway?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know you’re here?” 

Jason thought for a moment, weighing the possible responses. “No.”

“Interesting. How did you two meet?” 

“That doesn’t matter.”

“But that’s him? In the pictures?” 

“What do you think?” Jason asked, feeling heat rise in his chest. _ Stop it. Stop it! _

Roman leaned forward, threading his fingers together. “How long have you two been working together?” 

“A couple of months,” Jason replied. “What are—”

“A couple of months,” he repeated, seemingly rolling the words around his mouth. “How curious. So you found him right after you killed that…_ Nightwing.” _

Something dropped inside Jason. He struggled to maintain a veneer of indifference, to keep his thoughts focused on the task at hand. “That’s possible,” he said, but Roman didn’t seem to be listening.

“Speaking of,” the man began, “how _ did _you get away from Batman? I’m assuming he was the one who fished you out of the bay, after…” He gestured vaguely toward his chest. 

“I got away. Slade found me. I beat him.” 

“With Nightwing.”

“No,” Jason lied.

“No?”

“No.”

Roman made a noise of acknowledgement. “And you killed him because…?”

“He got in my way.”

“Right. Of course.” He smirked. “How very impressive of you.”

Jason picked up his wine glass and pretended to study the color. “This is a waste of my time,” he said, trying to sound as bored as possible. 

“You know, I was expecting to have some difficulty getting you here,” Roman continued, ignoring him. “I never would have thought a few _ emails _would have made you so pliable.”

_ I’m not pliable, _Jason almost said, but then he felt the cool air on his skin and clamped his mouth shut.

“Tell me,” Roman said. “Would you have come if your _ friend _ wasn’t in the photograph?” 

“I was curious to see what you had to say. That’s all.”

Roman stayed quiet, studying his face. “You love him,” he said, after a moment. “Oh god, you actually _ love _him. How precious.” 

Jason’s face began to burn. His fingers curled around the edge of his seat, pressing into the wood until they went numb. “Tell me why I shouldn’t walk out of here right now,” he hissed. 

“Because we’re just getting started. My meeting, my terms. Have you forgotten the rules so soon?” He chuckled. “Well. Clearly you have, seeing as you’re _ in love.” _

Gritting his teeth, Jason stayed put. It took every ounce of him to formulate a response that wouldn’t drag him further toward the edge. “You can keep thinking that, if you want to.” 

“Oh, I will.” 

“Great,” Jason said. “Have it your way.”

Behind him, the door opened. Anna again. This time she was much better at controlling herself, keeping her pace even and her eyes fixed straight ahead. 

“Are you ready to order?” she asked. 

Roman shook his head. “Not now, my dear. We’re in the middle of a most _ enthralling _discussion.” 

“I see,” Anna replied, glancing quickly at Jason before pretending she had not. “Five minutes?” 

“Make it ten.” He lifted his glass, swirling the wine that remains. It glints crimson in the light. “And bring the bottle, will you. My _ guest _ may not be drinking yet, but I assure you, he will be.”

“Of—of course.” 

As Anna turned to leave, Roman added, “The rest of you, follow. I’d like to have a little alone time with our guest. Understand?” 

A chorus of _ yes sirs. _The door opened; the door shut. Alone. 

Goosebumps rose along the bare skin of Jason’s torso. He cursed himself for the reaction, for the hollowness in his chest, for feeling anything at all. So goddamn stupid. 

“So, Jason,” Roman began. “Does he love you too? Or do you just trail after him like a lovesick pup?”

_ Breathe in, breathe out. _“I’m gonna give you five more minutes,” he replied. “Then I’m leaving.”

The man laughed. “A deadline. You have some nerve. But we already knew that, didn’t we.” 

Silence. Jason picked up his wine glass and squeezed, if only to give his fingers something to do. 

“How did you convince him to help you?” Roman asked. 

_ Squeezing. _The wine shimmered. “He wanted to.”

“So he doesn’t have other obligations?” 

“Do your men?” Jason asked. 

“What’s his name?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Here.” 

“He loves you too, doesn’t he.”

_ Squeezing. _The stem felt unstable in his fingers, ready to shatter at any moment. Jason set it down slowly, pulling an annoyed face. “If that’s what you want to believe,” he muttered. 

Roman’s eyes gleamed with something sinister. “Does he know who I am to you?” 

“You’re nothing to me.” 

“You wound me.”

Scoffing, Jason rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap, Roman,” he snapped.

“A new topic, then.” 

“Fine.”

“Where’s Nightwing’s body?”

Jason felt the muscles of his shoulders lock tight. “What?” he asked.

Roman shrugged. “It’s a simple question, Jason. You killed the man, yes? Where did you put his body? And do be honest. I will know if you’re lying.”

“Why do you care?”

“Surely such a thing could be useful. An intimidation tactic.” He appeared to be grinning. “Hang his corpse from city hall. Drain his blood on the Bat Signal. Cut off his face and make a mask of it. Heard that’s all the rage, these days.” 

Swallowing the dryness in his mouth, Jason said, “His body is gone.”

That goddamn smirk. “You’re lying.”

“Threw it in the bay. I don’t need to stoop to your level.”

“43 North 31st Street,” Roman said.

“Excuse me?” 

“43 North 31st Street,” he repeated. “You don’t remember? It’s where you had me come and collect that walking incompetence known as De Marco. Where you _ killed _Nightwing.” 

“What of it?” Jason said sharply. 

“It’s quite a ways from the bay. Why go through all that trouble?”

His head was a sudden wildfire. Chaos. “I didn’t—”

“Did you carry him by yourself? Or did your friend—oh right. Your friend showed up _ after _Nightwing’s death, yes? Or am I misunderstanding something here?”

Jason tried to fake an exasperated silence. But he knew from the temperature of his face, the sound of his pulse, that it was not working. He could do nothing but focus on the acute dread festering in every dark corner of his body. 

_ No. _

Roman gestured to the photographs in front of Jason. “He’s quite a talented young man, your friend. The things he can do…”

“Say it,” Jason said softly.

“What was that?”

Licking his lips, Jason raised his eyes to meet Roman’s. Everything had gone numb: his fingertips, his feet, his face, his core. “No more games, Roman. Just say it.” 

Roman’s gaze held him steady. One second became two, and two seconds became five, as if he could tell that each second of silence drove another nail into Jason’s heart. Ten seconds. More. An air of satisfaction settled around him. 

“So it’s true,” he said. “How…sentimental. ” 

Jason grit his teeth. “Roman—”

“Please. I should be congratulating you!” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “You and _ Nightwing. _ I could hardly have hoped for better. It’s every father’s dream.” 

Fuck neutrality. 

“Don’t call yourself that,” Jason hissed, feeling every part of him lurch with rage. “Don’t you dare.” 

“Why not? I raised you, didn’t I? Gave you clothes, food, a roof over your head…” 

“You _ beat _ me. Used me. I mean, fuck.” Jason nearly laughed, if only to release some of the pressure. “You fucking _ tortured _me.”

Roman sighed deeply, shaking his head. With calculated movements, he lifted off his mask and set it on the table. Somehow, his unmasked face—with the subtle curve of his lip, the unforgiving line of his jaw, the soft colors of his skin—was worse. More human. More dangerous. 

“Jason,” he began. “You have to understand. I care about you. Truly. The things I have done were unfortunate, yes, but they had to happen. They made you what you are.” 

“I am what I choose to be,” he replied. 

“You are what I allow you to be.”

Jason scoffed again and leaned back, waiting for his pulse to settle. Before he could stop himself he looked at the knife on the table before him, then glanced away quickly. 

“It’s true,” Roman continued. “If I wanted you dead, you would be dead. If I wanted you as an ally, you would be at my side. If I wanted to cut you open and carve out your organs…” He picked up his own knife and examined the dull tip, the serrated edge. “Well. I’d hate to ruin such a nice tablecloth.” 

“How fatherly of you,” Jason snapped. 

Roman shrugged and set down the knife. “I really do care about you, Jason. I’d hate to see you throw away the _ one chance _ you have to be happy.” On another face, is smile might have been charming. “Because this _ will _end badly, you and him. Tell me you know that.” 

Of course he did. And he hated that Roman did too. 

“You and _ Nightwing,” _the man said again. “Vigilante and crime lord. Hero and murderer. Practically star-crossed lovers. How long do you think it will last before it falls apart? Before you snap and he sees the monster inside of you? One month? Two?” 

Jason grit his teeth. “Shut up.” 

“Or will you both be dead by then?”

_ Fuck it. _He pushed his chair back and stood, no longer caring that he was naked, no longer feeling anything but his own fevered blood. “I’m done,” he said sharply, reaching for the pile of his clothes. “No more bullshit.”

“You haven’t heard my offer,” Roman said. 

Jason tugged on his boxers, his shirt. “I don’t care.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way. I can help you.”

“Fuck you.”

_ “Sit down, Jason.” _

And just like that: it was as if he’d been possessed. Jason dropped his jacket and turned around, slowly finding his way back to the seat, hating his racing heart, hating his numb tongue. Weak. Fucking weak.

Across the table, Roman’s posture was still, his face hard. It was an expression Jason knew well, one that hid a boiling temper and preceded an angry fist. But Roman didn’t move. After a moment, he softened. 

“Like I said,” he began, brushing down his suit, “I want the best for you.” 

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Jason muttered.

Roman’s brow furrowed. “They got to you, didn’t they,” he said, tutting quietly. “Made you think things that aren’t true.” 

Jason snorted.

You want to know the difference between me and the Bat? I understand the consequences of what I do. Can you say the same of him?” 

“They’re not monsters.”

“Please. Whatever happened to _ killing is a mercy?” _

“Mercy is mercy,” Jason spat. 

“Then let me show it to you,” Roman said, smiling. “Here’s what is going to happen, Little Wolf. You will leave here and go back to your boyfriend. That’s it. You two do what you want from there on out. Leave Gotham. Play with the Justice League. Start a goddamn nonprofit to save the fucking children. Whatever you have to do to convince him not to leave you.” 

“And in exchange I do what? Give you your money? Your gangs?” 

Roman waved him off. “Keep them for all I care. There are more…valuable prizes.” 

“Really.” Jason folded his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

“Your _ boyfriend _is Nightwing. And Nightwing works closely with Batman. With the Titans. With everyone really.” He paused to take a sip of wine, then sighed amusedly. “Funny. It would seem that he gets around almost as much as you do.”

Red pushed at the edge of Jason’s vision. “Roman,” he said sharply. 

“Give me their names, and you go free.” 

Silence. Jason stared, letting the weight of what was said soak through his skin. 

“Names,” he said at last.

Roman shrugged. “Not all of them, of course. Let’s say…five. Five names, including the Bat’s, and we’ll all be on our merry way. And make them good names. No one cares about that ‘Speedy’ boy.” 

_ No, _Jason thought, but the word caught on his tongue. 

“You’re not asking for Nightwing’s,” he said, after a moment. It was more a question than anything else, a query made in disbelief.

“No, I’m not.” Roman smiled again. “I care about your happiness, Little Wolf. Just give me the names, and you two will be free. No one has to get hurt.” 

There it was: the threat that lingered beneath the promise. Jason could read the meaning like he could read a clock: I will hurt him if you refuse. 

A stone lodged itself in his belly. 

“And what if he doesn’t know their identities?” he asked slowly, laying down each word carefully, as if completing a puzzle. 

Roman chuckled. “Please.”

“We don’t talk about those things.” He looked down at the table setting before him, fingered the long handle of the salad fork. “I have no idea what he does and doesn’t know.” 

“Bullshit.” 

Jason’s head snapped up.

“Five names,” Roman said again. “Just _ five, _and you can have your happily ever after with the Night Brat. Hell, you should be down on your knees thanking me for my generosity. Come on, Jason. Don’t be stupid.”

_ Just five, _ said the voice in his head. _ What’s the worst that can happen? _

For the briefest second, Jason pictured that future: blood, deaths, power, confusion, him, Dick, _ war. _And he knew there was only one answer. There had only ever been one answer. 

“No,” he said. 

Roman’s upper lip curled into a sneer. _ “No?” _

“Fuck your _ generosity,” _Jason spat. “I won’t do it. Not now, not ever.”

“You’d throw everything away, just like that.” 

“I’m throwing away nothing.” 

In an instant Roman was on his feet, fists digging into the table as his eyes burned. “Do you even _ know _what I’ll do to you?” he hissed. “What I’ll do to him?” 

“You won’t win.” 

“I’ll crush every bone in his body. Rip out his tongue. Flay the skin from his back.” 

Jason stood with intention, keeping himself grounded even as his pulse rushed in his ears. “Here’s what’s going to happen, _ Roman,” _ he said. “I’m going to walk out of here, and you’re going to let me.” 

“Sit down or I’ll break your legs.” 

“No you won’t,” Jason snapped. “Do you know why? Because you’ve got _ nothing _ on me, Roman. I’ve got everything you want. You can’t even _ touch _ me!” 

Roman bared his teeth. “I _ made _ you,” he snarled, and Jason laughed.

_“You_ did nothing. All those times you beat me? Starved me? _I _chose to keep going. _I _chose to become stronger.” 

“Do you even know what I’m capable of?”

“You’ve never fought for anything,” Jason said. “I’ve been fighting my whole life. So tell me, _ Sir. _Which one of us will fall harder?”

A loud _ crack _ shook the room as Roman’s fist struck the table. “Fine,” he hissed. “You want to lose that badly? Be my fucking guest. Go on. Leave.” 

“Fine.” Jason spun on his heels and grabbed his jacket, slipping it over his shoulders as he walked toward the door. 

“But one more thing.”

_ Go to hell, _he thought, turning around just as Roman was slipping his phone back into his pocket. He watched the sleek case disappear, then looked up into the man’s hard expression. 

“What?” he asked sharply, as he heard the door behind him open. Heavy footsteps filed inside, growing into shadows in the corner of his vision. 

Roman started toward him, slowly. “It’s impolite to leave without saying goodbye.” 

“What do you want, a fucking hug?” 

“No,” Roman replied, nodding at someone Jason could not see. He stepped closer. His eyes did not leave Jason. “I want you to _ watch.” _

“Watch what?” Jason spat. 

And then the door opened again. 

He whipped around just to see one of the men grabbing Anna. Her shriek was muffled by a meaty hand as the bottle of wine crashed to the floor, spitting out red over the stone. 

Jason’s stomach dropped. “Wait—”

Not fast enough. A flash of silver, and blood spurted from the woman’s neck. She sunk to the floor like a rock in water, clutching at the gaping wound. Gargling on blood. _ Dying. _In a second, an hour, she was still. 

Jason stared at her body, frozen. 

_ Your fault. _

Roman’s voice crept into his ear. “This is just a taste, _ boy,” _ he muttered, placing one hand on Jason’s shoulder. The man’s body was close, almost eclipsing his own. “When you leave here, I want you to imagine what I can do in private. What I _ will _do.”

Swallowing, Jason shook his head and waited for recovery. Already the shock of the kill was wearing off, leaving nothing but the familiar emptiness and clarity behind. Hell. Maybe he really was the same. 

_ Wait. Keep looking. Take one small step back. Force his hand from your shoulder. _

“Was this supposed to intimidate me?” he asked, tugging his eyes away from the body to look once more at Roman. “You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“It’s not too late to back down,” Roman replied. 

_ But it is. _

“Until next time, _ sir,” _ Jason snapped. He didn’t wait for Roman to reply. 

It was too long before he could get back to his bike. Each second of walking, running, sprinting, Jason felt a tremble spread throughout his body, starting with his hands and ending with his throat. _ Have to get away. Have to get out. _

As he threw on his helmet and kicked up the stand, he pictured Roman’s face opening in surprise, pictured his men running after him with their guns drawn. Keys in the ignition. Squeezing the accelerator. Peeling away. Roman’s men would be outside the restaurant now, looking. But Jason was already gone. 

And Roman’s phone was tucked safely in the front pocket of his jacket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Boss fight music*


	25. Server

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaahhh shit's goin' down, boys. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** mild violence, mori's attempts to describe programming

Jason didn’t make it back to the apartment. 

One moment he was peeling down the shadowed streets past Robinson Park, wind whipping his clothes and freezing his fingers around the accelerator while his pulse hammered against his skull. Dark buildings and trees blurred into streetlights. Afraid to breathe, lest it slow him down. Only a little further. One block. Less. 

And then a figure stepped into the street.

Instincts took over. He swore and slammed on the brakes, lurching back as if his body could yank the bike away. Wheels screeching. Wind slowing. The bike skid over the pavement—nearly toppled from the momentum—until both it and Jason’s heart came to a stop. 

The figure’s face was obscured in the soft backlight and the heavy shadows. Dark clothing, carrying a backpack in a tight grip. A familiar stance. 

Jason breathed a sigh of relief and ripped the helmet off his head. Without the tinted shield of the visor, the world came readily into view. 

Dick’s face was wrought with a strange mixture of rage and relief. “You’re fucking stupid_ ,” _ he said. “I mean, _ fuck _Jason. What if you—”

“We need to get somewhere safe. Now.” 

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?” 

“I’ll tell you everything. I promise. Just—” Jason ran a hand through his hair, cursing. “Somewhere with decryption software. Where we can’t be tracked.” 

An infinite second. He could hear the rush of cars down distant streets, crossing the river that separated the Fashion District from the Upper East Side. The phone in his pocket grew heavy.

“Fine,” Dick said, though his voice had softened. Swinging the backpack over his shoulder, he hopped on the back of the bike and thread his arms around Jason’s chest. “11th street. Take a right when you hit Dillon.” 

Too late to back down. Nothing to do but move forward. 

Forward was a small garage at the end of a dark street, looking just like all the others off the Aparo Expressway. When he cut the engine, the night fell into an ugly silence. Jason breathed deeply, and as he inhaled he realized how little oxygen was left in him. Like he had been holding his breath for hours. 

His hands shook with residual quakes as he uncurled them from the handlebars and flexed them, once, twice, until the stiffness dissipated and only the tremble was left behind. No matter how hard he tried he could not wipe Roman’s face from his mind.

_ Do you even know what I’ll do to you? What I’ll do to him? _

“All handprints on the system,” Dick said flatly, placing his palm against the center of a door. It unlocked with a dull click. “Told B to get rid of mine, but I knew he’d keep it anyway.” 

Jason said nothing. His fingers dipped into his pocket, grazing the cool metal of Roman’s phone. 

_ Faster, _ urged the voices inside. _ Faster. Faster. _

A panel lit up in the darkness, washing Dick’s face in soft blue light. He plugged in numbers quickly, hit something Jason could not see, and the lights of the garage flickered on. 

“Talk,” Dick said, dropping his bag on a table. 

Sighing deeply, Jason pulled out the phone and set it down. Dick stared at it for a moment before realization flickered over his face. 

“Is that—”

“We need to disable tracking software,” Jason said. “Now.” 

Dick nodded, already reaching into the bag to pull out a laptop. “Cables are hanging up behind you. Yep. Those.” 

Jason plugged in one end to the phone, and handed the other to Dick. “I’m sorry,” he said, watching Dick’s fingers fly over the keys. 

“You should be.” 

“I had to go.” 

Dick picked up the phone, turned it over, then set it back down. “You should have told me,” he said sharply, not looking at Jason. 

“How did you find out?” 

“_Heading out. Be back soon. I love you," _Dick muttered. His eyes reflected the blue light from his computer screen, the white numbers. “Cracked your laptop in about two minutes. Your password’s shit.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jason said again. 

“What if he hurt you?”

“I _ know _ him. He wouldn’t hurt me, not because I’m his…” Jason trailed off, hating that the word _ son _pressed against his lips. God damn Roman for putting it there. “...Because he’d want something from me.” 

Dick hummed in acknowledgement as Roman’s phone lit up, then went dark again. Done. “And what did he want?” he asked softly, his hands falling from the keyboard. 

Clenching his jaw, Jason leaned back against a cabinet and stared at the dusty floor. “Names,” he said.

“Names?”

Jason nodded. “Names,” he repeated, and told Dick everything. 

After, he chewed the inside of his cheek, studying the lines and curves of Dick’s face. Still angry. Less than before, but still his temper buzzed like a live wire. Jason could feel it as if it were his own. Hell. Maybe it was. Everything inside him was too hot; too tight. 

“And I know it was stupid,” he added. “God. Incredibly stupid. I guess I thought…I thought this had to be my fight. That it was just me and Roman, and no one else. That if you or anyone else got hurt, it would be because of me. As if I was the one who pulled the fucking trigger.” A small, bitter laugh escaped him. All the threats, all the hurt… “Shit. The bastard probably wanted me to think that, didn’t he.” 

“Yeah,” Dick said quietly. “I’d say that seems likely.”

“Fuck. I’m a fucking idiot.” 

A second passed. Dick crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “If you’re waiting for me to disagree, I’m not going to.” 

“I’m not. I just…” Jason took a deep breath, flexing his hands to release some of the pent-up energy in his chest. “I guess I just had this notion that I wasn’t gonna come back from this fight. That it would be what I deserved. But now I think—

“You don’t deserve to get hurt either,” Dick finished.

“Yeah.” He nodded, laughing dryly. “He fucked me up pretty good, huh?” 

“He tried to.” 

Jason allowed himself a small smile. It faded as quickly as it appeared. “We can’t go back to the apartment,” he said. “Not when—”

“Not when he knows who I am, yeah.” 

“Fuck. We can’t go anywhere.” 

“Unless I’m wearing a balaclava.” 

“How inconspicuous.” 

Dick gave him half a smile. “So,” he said. “What do we do first?” 

“Can they track us here?” Jason asked.

“I disabled the phone’s connections. No more communication with external devices.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Is there any chance they followed you?” 

All Jason remembered was the howl of the wind around him, the trembling of his limbs and heart. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so.” 

Dick paused, chewing his lower lip. A dark lock of hair dangled in front of his eyes, obscuring the bright blue of his irises. After a moment, he said, “Better move quickly. If they did follow, how long do you think we have?” 

“With his resources? Thirty,” Jason said. “An hour at most. Can you crack his phone?”

“I think so,” Dick replied, turning back to his computer screen. “Software looks pretty basic. Heh. Probably never expected to lose possession of his phone.”

Jason swore. “Of course he didn’t.” 

“There should be a small device in the cabinet to your left. Cryptographic sequencer. See it?” 

“Nothing,” he replied, trying the next door over. “Nothing again.”

“Shit.” 

“So we try something new.”

“Manual decryption it is,” Dick said, shaking his head. He typed in a few words, stared at the screen, then shook his head again. “This should be interesting.” 

_ Better move quickly. _

Jason looked toward the walls of the building, as if his eyes could penetrate the thick concrete and see the street beyond. Too silent. Only the buzz of fluorescent lights, and the clicking of Dick’s fingers on the keyboard. 

“Should we call Babs?” he asked. 

“I can do it,” Dick replied. His brow furrowed. “Just...give me a moment.” 

“Do we have a moment?” 

“I don’t know. Are you sure they didn’t follow you?” 

_ They didn’t. They did. _“I don’t know.” 

Dick cursed beneath his breath. “I can see the files,” he said, gesturing at the screen. “I can _ see _ them. But I can’t open them without a password. And with a computer like mine, it would take days to crack it. We’ve got less than an hour.” 

“So we call Babs.” Jason said. “Call Tim. Call Bruce. The computer in the cave can do it in minutes, right?” 

“Except I disabled the external communication.” 

“I thought you said the software was basic.”

“It is! A sequencer could break this in two minutes! But all I have is an old laptop, because _ someone—” _ Dick stopped forcefully, shaking his head. “I’m still thinking,” he said. “Just...a moment. Please.”

“Shit,” Jason breathed, leaning over the table to rest his head in his hands. _ Think. Think. Quickly. _“Let me see the phone.” 

Dick pushed it toward him without looking, still absorbed in his screen. “You’re not trying to guess, are you?” 

“What else am I supposed to do?” Jason asked, turning the phone on. The dark wallpaper reflected his tired expression. “Sit here on lookout duty?”

“Do you really think you can get it right?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Jason replied, staring at the letters on the phone screen. “Any advice?” 

“Try _ password,” _Dick said dryly. 

“Ha ha.”

Dick swore beneath his breath, but not at Jason. Outside, a car screeched down the road. Both of them jumped then pretended they had not. 

“Do you remember any of his old passcodes?” Dick asked. 

Jason nodded, breathing slowly to quell the sudden lurch of his heart. “A few.”

“Try one of those, but slightly off. Different capitals. Different number sequences.” 

“Right,” he muttered. Passcodes. Passcodes. He ran his thumb over the screen, trying to dig up the deepest secret and the string of information that protected it. The elevator. The penthouse. His computer. The first two levels of the Sionis building. 

_ Fuck, _ he thought. An inexplicable anger sparked in his chest. All those years, and _ still _he knew next to nothing. 

Gritting his teeth, he plugged in the code for the Sionis building, switching out the final digit from a one to a two. The phone buzzed in his hand as a message popped up on the screen. 

“Shit.”

“What?” Dick asked.

Jason held up the phone. “It’s set to auto-wipe. We’ve got two tries left.” 

Dick stared at the phone, jaw clenching. “Couldn’t have swiped his thumbprint too, huh,” he said. 

“Facial recognition. Though there’s no way in hell Roman would have that enabled, not when—” He stopped suddenly, looking down at the phone, then at Dick’s laptop. “What’s locked, exactly?” 

“All the files.”

“What about the phone’s software?” 

A fresh light appeared behind Dick’s eyes. “Right. Let me check,” he said quickly. The _ click _of fingers over keys. “Nope. The encryption only extends to the data. Settings can be changed remotely.” 

“Then let’s change it,” Jason said, stepping around the table to get a view of the screen. “Add my face as a secondary key.”

A slight smile graced Dick’s lips. “Yeah. I think—I think I can do that,” he said, turning back to his computer. “It’s gonna want to map your face—hold on. Look into the webcam and move your face in a circle. Right. Now the other way.”

Jason did as he was asked, trying not to glance at the time in the corner of the screen. Fifty-two minutes. Less. 

“One sec.” All of Dick’s attention focused in on the screen as he moved between folders, entered information, ran a program through the command prompt. His lips pursed in concentration, taking Jason with the sudden desire to kiss him. To feel wanted again. Though Roman had not touched him, Jason could feel the man seeping beneath his skin like a violent chill. 

He took a shaky breath, and buried his attention in the movements on the computer screen. 

“Done,” Dick said, brow furrowing. “At least, I think it’s done. It let me add the data, which is...something.” 

Jason eyed the phone. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.” 

“Guess so.” 

“Right.” He picked up the phone and turned it on. “Here goes nothing.”

Waiting. Waiting. The lock at the top of the screen turned over, once, twice, three times. 

And opened. 

Jason released his breath at once, grinning as he held up the open screen toward Dick. _ Dick, _who looked almost surprised that it had worked, as if he wasn’t the best partner Jason could have hoped for. 

Overcome, Jason threw his arms around Dick and brought their lips together. A deep kiss. Like water washing away all the muck and grime caked over his skin. And when it came time to breathe, Jason said, dazed, “You’re so fucking smart.”

A blush had spread across Dick’s cheeks. “It was your idea,” he said.

“But _ you _ pulled it off.” Jason pulled him closer, holding tight. Trying to shut away everything else. Just him and Dick: no threats, no death, no fear, no Roman. “Shit,” he swore, swallowing the emotion that rose inside him. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t say that.”

Jason laughed bitterly. A release. “Why?” he asked. “It’s true. I’ve been nothing but a selfish asshole, and you— God. I’m so sorry.” 

Strong arms tightened around the crest of his back. “Are you okay?” Dick asked softly. 

_ Only fifty minutes left to work. Less. _

“I will be, soon as this is over.” He pulled away—lingering as long as possible, already feeling the cold seep back into him—and nodded at the phone. “Files?”

Dick nodded. “Yeah,” he replied, turning back to his laptop. “I’ll see what I can extract.”

“I’ve got access to messages, mail, contacts, and photos,” Jason said, scrolling through the phone. His thumb lingered over the applications for too long, waiting for his brain to decide whether or not it was worth it to see what was inside. 

“Looks like he’s been emailing people with Sionis Industries addresses,” Dick mused. “A lot of them. Looks pretty standard, but… Hold on.” 

“What?” 

“There’s a lot of references to, quote, ‘the server.’ Like, a _ lot. _ I mean, I’ve only been skimming them, but still. Any ideas?”

“I’m guessing it’s a central server. Wild, I know.”

“Shit,” Dick breathed. “If there is one—and we can get access to it—we could shut down everything. Grab the info and blow it before he can squirrel away the evidence. Bring him down, bring his whole empire down. For good.”

A sudden hope burst in Jason’s chest. _ For good. _ “Then let’s find it,” he said, forcefully. “Come on, Dick. We have to. We _ have _to.”

“Okay, okay.” Dick typed out something, then turned back to Jason. “First: the places it could be. Go.” 

“External building,” Jason replied. “He’s got some secondary hideouts, a few warehouses under fake names, but there’s no way we have the time to check them all.” 

“What about the Industries Building?” 

Jason shrugged. “Possibly. Like I said before, production shut down, so it’s basically an empty factory. Storage space.”

“Enough room for a server? Data farm?”

“Maybe,” he replied, thinking of the huge empty spaces, the dozens of doors he saw but never ventured through. Dust, grime, broken windows, all the abandoned factory shit. “But the ventilation isn’t great, and it’s right on the water. Too hot, too wet. Shit place to house a data farm.” 

“Makes sense,” Dick said, scrolling through something he couldn’t see. “What about the penthouse?”

Jason thought for a moment. “His penthouse,” he repeated. “It’s...it’s big. Like, two floors big, plus the living space. I didn’t go everywhere—wasn’t _ allowed _everywhere—but I saw almost all of it.” 

Dick watched him, waiting. 

“What I’m saying is,” Jason continued, “I never saw a server room. There were offices, yeah, and smaller server rooms, but…when you’re running something like he is, you need a lot of space to store the data. And if something like that was in the penthouse, I don’t think I would have missed it.” 

“You positive?” Dick asked.

“Not at all. What else can you pull from the phone?” 

Dick turned the screen to face him, but stopped halfway through the motion. His shoulders tightened; his eyes flickered toward the closest wall. After a moment, he shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Thought I heard something.”

Jason looked at the wall. No windows, no sound. A shiver ran down the skin of his arms. “Did you?” 

“I don’t know. How much time do we have?” 

“Let’s just bank on _ not a lot.” _

A grim look spread across Dick’s face. “Check the messages,” he said. “See if there’s anything that looks like a server. I’ll isolate the relevant emails and give them a closer look.”

The messages were useless. Jason scrolled through them, gut sinking as he read them all in Roman’s cool tone. _ The order is coming in on Saturday. We’ll talk next steps later. Be there at six. I want to set an example. I will soon have promising information on the identities. Come back and bring the waitress. _

A pang of guilt stabbed Jason through the chest as he reread the last one, picturing blood spilling over dark stone. Anna’s empty eyes. _ Not your fault, _he told himself. Didn’t make the call. Didn’t wield the knife. That was what Roman would want him to believe. 

His fingers curled around the phone, squeezing until the blood left his knuckles. 

“Got something,” Dick said suddenly. “Photo attachment. Here.”

About five server racks, all washed in cool green light. Clean, shiny floors. Dim lighting. Jason can hardly make out anything else, only a small sliver of wall and part of an air conditioning unit. 

“Well,” he said. “That’s definitely a server room.” 

Dick gave him a look. “But where is it?” 

“Not a warehouse, with those floors. And the ceiling’s too low.”

“Do you recognize anything?” 

Jason leaned closer into the screen, as if a few inches would jog his memory. “It can’t be an apartment or safehouse,” he said. “He’d have had to gut the whole thing. Not exactly inconspicuous. Who sent the email?”

“Some data management center,” Dick replied. “Maintenance.” 

“My guess is we’re looking at a secondary location. Possibly the penthouse.” Again his eyes scanned the photo, looking for something. Anything. Familiar door frames, familiar lights, anything more than green lights and black boxes of data. 

_ There. _

“Fingerprint scanner,” he said, pointing at the corner of the screen. “Left side of the photo, just cut off. Looks like a grey box.” 

Dick squinted at the screen. “A scanner, huh? Could be.”

“It is. I’ve seen one like it before. A few of them, actually,” Jason said, remembering Roman’s office, the bulletin board full of news articles all pointing to Robin. Where it all began. “In the penthouse.” 

“You sure?” 

Jason nodded, shuffling the pieces around in his brain. Who Roman is. What Roman has done. Where Roman keeps things. “It makes sense,” he said. “I _ know _him, Dick. And I know he wouldn’t trust anyone to guard this kind of information. For all his guards and shit…if there’s important information, he’d want to keep it as close as possible.” 

A solemn look passed over Dick’s face. A focused look. “So one: how do we find it?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. “And how do we get to it?” 

_ Quickly. _

“The offices are on the thirty-sixth floor. A lot of hallways. I can’t—I can’t think of any place in particular where it could be. I’ve seen most of it.” 

“Right.” Dick’s fingers flitted over the keys of his laptop before he yanked out the cord and slammed the lid shut. Both the laptop and the phone went into his bag. “So we use a Geiger counter. The trace amount of radiation should get us close enough.” 

“That should work.”

“And what about getting in?”

“I can get us in.”

“Right,” Dick said again. He took a deep breath, worked up a smile. “So when do we do this?”

A sick anticipation stirred in Jason’s belly. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to come up with a better answer, an answer he _ wanted _to give, even as he knew there was none. Very little time. So much to lose, if the window disappears.

“Roman knows I have his phone,” he said, slowly. “By tomorrow his security will be tripled, maybe more.” 

Dick paused, hand tightening around the strap of his bag. His brow furrowed. “You’re saying we need to act tonight?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“But what about—”

“No one else gets hurt, Dick,” Jason said sharply. Definitively. “No one. Every second we waste is another opportunity for him to plant seeds of cruelty in this city. To do to someone else what he did to me. And I can’t let that happen, not—”

His words cut off as Dick’s lips crashed over his own. Holding him still. Taking his breath away. It was only for a moment, and yet it was enough to ground him. 

“You don’t have to explain,” Dick said softly, after. He pressed another gentle kiss to Jason’s temple and pulled away, leaving behind the enduring warmth of his touch. “I know. I trust you.”

“You really shouldn’t,” Jason replied.

“I know. Guess I’m just a sucker for handsome guys.” 

Scoffing, Jason slipped Roman’s phone back into the pocket of his jacket. “Right,” he said, zipping it up to his neck. “Where do we go first?”

♟♟♟

Dick was wearing his Nightwing suit again. Jason had forgotten how good he looked in it, how confident. Like the two were meant to be together. 

“No point in hiding it,” Dick said, when he caught Jason looking. “If Roman knows, he knows. Besides, body armor is better than a kevlar suit, you know?” 

“I know.” Jason tore his eyes away, sending his gaze toward the building not one hundred feet away. From this angle, he could hardly see the glittering penthouse windows atop the high-rise. Just dark glass, extending up and up toward the clouded night sky. Thirty-seven stories. More. 

Dick crouched down, letting a heavy bag fall from his back. In the little time they had to do everything, they had done their best to gather all they could: a better computer, back-up hard drives, smoke pellets, all the leftover shit the Bats had lying around the city. Even after the bag reached thirty pounds, it still felt like it wasn’t enough. 

“You can get us to the right floor?” Dick asked. 

Jason nodded. “We’ll need something to bypass the electronic locks, but yeah. Easy.” 

“Got it. And when we find the server?” 

Reaching to his belt, Jason picked out a cryo capsule and rolled it between his fingers. “You grab the data. I’ll set the charges. In and out. Boom.”

“Boom,” Dick repeated, tucking a squarish device onto his belt. He looked up at Jason. “You’re not wearing a mask.” 

“No point in hiding it.” 

“If B were here, he’d tell you that that’s a bad idea.”

Jason snorted. “Why?”

“Don’t know. Just feel like that’s something he would say.” Dick shrugged as he zipped up the bag and threw it over his shoulder. 

“Did you tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

Jason motioned between them, then to the building across the street. “What do you think?”

“Oh.” Dick’s lips pulled tight. Despite his mask,it was clear that his brow was tense. “There’s a system, when we’re on active cases. Daily check-ins. Miss the window, and an alert goes out. Just in case.”

Something dropped inside Jason. “Just in case,” he echoed. 

“I’ll get you on the system.” Dick smiled, put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “After all of this is over, I’ll get you on. Don’t think anyone will be able protest that.”

“It’s gonna be over really soon.” 

“I know. Are you ready?”

Jason scoffed, trying to keep his face still. _ Really soon. _The thought echoed through him like a harsh noise, leaving the tips of his fingers numb. “Are you?” he asked.

“Always,” Dick replied.

“Good.” He took a deep breath and cast his eyes to the building across the street. A hundred feet and thirty-six stories to go. “Stay close behind me. Cameras. Got something for the locks?” 

Dick held up the squarish device.

“Good.” Jason flexed his hands inside his gloves. The numbness migrated down his knuckles, the tendons of his hands.

“In and out,” Dick said, motioning toward the building. “After you.”

Big breath in, big breath out. Jason grinned. 

“Let’s ruin this son of a bitch,” he said, and took off.

Left side of the building. Emergency stairwell. Cameras above the door, and in the parking lot. No blind-spots—or at least none that Jason could remember. He kept to the edge, inside the shadows, feeling his cheeks burning in the icy air. 

Yes, the air. That’s why they were burning. It had to be.

“Security,” Dick hissed from behind, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to a stop. Waiting. Waiting. Jason looked to the door, then to the sky. Fifteen feet and thirty-six stories. 

After a moment, a SUV pulled past them, slowly. The driver did not look once in their direction.

“We’ll have to unlock the door quickly,” Jason whispered, pointing to the camera pointing at the exit. 

Dick chuckled softly. “This is hardly the first time I’ve broken into a high-security building,” he said. “I broke into the Batcave at age twelve.”

“Good for you.”

“Uh huh.” He nodded toward the door. “Time to move.”

Crossing the short distance. Waiting again. Dick pulled out the device, flipped it open, held it by the keypad. Numbers shimmered across the screen, responding to the gentle swipes of Dick’s fingers. 

Jason glanced at the camera. _ Quickly, quickly. _

“One more second,” Dick muttered. “There.” 

The door clicked open. In a second, they were inside a stairwell. The air was strangely placid. As Jason leapt up the stairs two at a time, it felt like he was slicing through it. 

“In here,” he said, breathless, pushing open the door to the fourth floor corridor. A cool hallway greeted them. “Cameras on upper stairwells—can’t jam them all—not without causing suspicion—gotta move between them.” 

“Right.” 

Past silent apartment doors. Nearly one in the morning. The carpet muffled the sound of their footsteps. Jason’s thoughts fell to Roman, to where he must be. _ Looking. Waiting. Watching? No, he can’t be watching. Not yet— _

“Stairs,” Dick hissed.

Jason took a sharp left, almost tripping over himself as he scrambled not to miss the doorway. Back to climbing. His legs burned beneath him. 

At the tenth floor, he held out a hand to Dick. “Trade you,” he said, taking the bag from his shoulders before ducking into the corridors.

Left, right, run. Into the stairwell. 

On the twentieth floor, they switched again. Sweat had begun to gather at the base of Jason’s neck.

On the thirtieth, they switched again. 

_ Six floors to go. _

“Jamming the remaining cameras now,” Dick said, fiddling with the hacking device. Something flashed over the screen. “Done.” 

Jason tightened his grip around the bag. “Okay,” he replied. With every passing second, his heart crawled further up his throat. Not because of the climb. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Dick pointed up the staircase, grinning. “Race you to the top,” he said, and took off. 

_ Of course. _Taking a deep breath, Jason followed, feeling the bag thud against his lower back with each step. Dick was half a story ahead of him. Every few seconds, he looked over the railing at Jason, smiled through the visible fatigue, and kept going. 

Jason knew what he was doing, and was grateful for it. 

Thirty-three. 

Thirty-four. 

Thirty-five. 

_ Thirty-six. _

“I won,” Dick said, breathing hard as he waited by the door to the hallway. A lock of hair dangled in front of his head; he pushed it away. 

Jason thrust the bag into his arms. “You got a head start.”

“Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

“Right.” Jason looked at the door, at the bright red 36 beside the handle. It looked different from the others: thicker, more secure. Bulletproof. Fireproof. He had seen it from the other side dozens of times, maybe even more, and had never thought anything of it. An emergency exit. Why was he supposed to care? 

Kneeling, Dick took out the hacking device and started fiddling with the number pad. “This one’s a bit more tricky,” he muttered, glancing between the device and the pad. “Security got upped.”

Far beneath them, Jason thought he heard a door slamming. Faint voices carried up the stairwell. “How long?” he asked, glancing over the rail. Nothing. That didn’t help. 

“A minute,” Dick looked up at the door. “You said there shouldn’t be many guards?”

“Only at strategic points. The rest are on call.” 

“So we take them out before the call can be made. Got it.” 

Jason looked at the door. “Will we have to do this on the way out?”

“No,” Dick replied. “As long as the building has power, the door should open just fine.” 

“And if there’s no power?” 

Dick shrugged as the door beeped. Slowly, cautiously, he stood, turned the handle, and pulled the door open. 

It felt like years since Jason had last seen these hallways. Smooth floors. Shiny walls. For a moment Jason stood shock-still, almost waiting for everything else to disappear. He’s back working for Roman. Looking for Robin. Everything else has been a lie. 

Then a hand fell on his shoulder. “We need to move,” Dick said gently, and without thinking any more Jason took off in a run. 

“No,” he muttered, looking at the rows of doors along their left. “No. No. Nope.” 

“Server rooms don’t usually share exterior walls,” Dick said. In his hands: a geiger counter. He kept his eyes fixed on it as he followed. “We’re gonna want to focus on—_ guard!” _

Jason skidded to a halt. Too late. He stumbled forward, crashing into a security outfit. A grunt, and both of them were falling to the floor.

_ Don’t let him make the call. _

A quick punch to the throat stifled the man’s shout. In the brief chaos, Jason scrambled for the com piece before he could recover, yanking it from his ear and tossing it across the floor. 

“Taser,” Dick said, and Jason rolled to the side. 

The crackle of electricity filled the hallway. The man writhed for a moment and then went still. With the flick of his wrist, Dick removed an escrima stick from the man’s skin. 

“We’re close,” he said, holding up the counter. 

Jason climbed to his feet, panting, and took the man’s legs in his hands. As he dragged the limp body toward the nearest door, he grunted, “Take a left.”

“Got it.”

The nearest door led to an office. Plain. Empty. Jason dropped the man unceremoniously behind the desk and closed the door behind him, trailing after Dick.

_ Quickly, quickly… _

“It’s here,” Dick muttered, placing his hand on the smooth surface of the door before him. “Counter marks a small uptick in radiation. And it’s inconspicuous, but the door feels a lot more fortified.”

Jason stared, rubbing his knuckles. “You can get us in?”

“Already started. Keep an eye out.” 

“Got it.” 

The seconds ticked by like explosions in his head. And the questions… too many to count. _ Fuck. _What if Dick’s camera jamming tech failed? What if they tripped some invisible alarm? What if Roman was already on his way?

“Jason?”

He looked over. Dick stood in an open doorway, beckoning for him to follow. Just beyond the door frame lay the room he had seen in the photograph. Dark shadows. Green light. Server racks. 

The door shut behind him with a quiet click. 

“Bag,” Dick said, holding out his hand. After Jason handed it over, he unzipped it and started pulling out charges. “You know how to set these up?”

“Yep.”

“Great.” He pulled out a cable and attached it to a different, bulkier laptop. “I’ll download everything I can.” 

_ Quickly, quickly. _

One charge beneath every other rack. Wires in the right place. Pair with the remote detonator. The floor was hard and unforgiving beneath his knee pads. When he breathed, it felt like he was swallowing ice. Too cold. His fingers fumbled with the wires, slowly growing numb.

In and out. Get the files. Destroy everything Roman’s worked for. 

And in the back of his head, a creeping voice: _ But will it be enough? _

Roman would still be alive. The justice system of Gotham would not hold him forever. And as long as he’s still drawing breath… 

“Jesus,” Dick muttered from across the space. Light from his screen flashed over his face. “I mean, shit. He’s got records for _ everything.” _

Jason swallowed, not wanting to say what he was thinking. “Great.”

“I’m compressing all that I can, but it’s a lot. Tax crap, records, saved correspondences with all sorts of bastards…” Dick looked up at him. “This is—”

“—good,” Jason finished, sticking another charge beneath a rack. “It’s good info. Let’s see where this takes us.”

“In the right hands, this info could get him arrested tomorrow.”

“So he goes to prison.” Align wires. Pair with detonator. “Good.”

_ And we can never be together, because he knows who you are, and if anyone sees us, then he’ll know who Nightwing is, and if he figures that out, it’s over. _

Jason gripped the last charge in unsteady hands while he set the last one by the router. Multi-colored lights blinked at him. Blue. White. Green. Align wires. Pair with detonator. Done. 

He stood, Dick’s name pressing on his tongue, before his eyes found a red lightsource at the base of the wall. 

Everything turned to ice.

“Fuck,” he hissed, already moving toward the door. “Fuck. Wing, we have to—fucking _ infrared sensors.” _

Dick’s spine stiffened. “Did you cross them?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“Right. Right. Okay.” His fingers flew across the keys. “I’m downloading all I can. Do we have five?”

Somewhere over the hum of the servers, Jason heard the distinctive shriek of an alarm. 

“We don’t _ have _ five.” 

“Shit.”

“Can we lock them out?” 

“Only if we lock ourselves in.” 

“God damn it.” Jason grit his teeth, running a hand through his hair. “God fucking damn it. What do we do?” 

“Files are still compressing,” Dick said, jaw tense. “I need three minutes to send the info out.” 

_ Three minutes. _Biting his lip, Jason put his fingers on the door handle, tugged it open ever-so slightly. The distant sound of angry shouts greeted him. 

“What are you doing?” Dick asked, as Jason started outside.

“Distraction.”

Something flashed over Dick’s face. “Careful.”

Jason nodded once, ignoring the anchor dropping in his stomach. _ Run. _ Down the hallway. Toss smoke pellet to the left. _ Run. _ Heart bursting inside him. Shouts growing closer. Alarm wailing. Have to protect Dick. _ Run. _

Two and a half minutes. 

Roman’s office was to the right; Jason took a hard turn and charged toward the door, grabbing for—something. The first thing his fingers could find. Napalm. That would do. 

The packet ignited instantly as it met the door, quickly spreading toward the ceiling and across the walls. Not enough to last, but the noise, the light—

Jason hit the floor just as gunfire erupted over his head. _ “There!” _someone was shouting. And the guns were still going off, and the tile chipped not one foot from him—

Ninety seconds. 

He pushed himself onto his knees and ran, retaining just enough control to throw a smoke pellet over his shoulder. A bullet whizzed by his ear. The hallway exploded into black. More shouts. The smell of burning plastic, the sound of lightbulbs bursting. 

_ Run. _He threw his elbow into a guard’s throat, kicked out his legs. 

_ Run. _Duck. Lunge. Move forward. 

_ Run. _ Have to get to Dick. Have to get to Dick. Have to get to Dick. _ Have to save Dick. _

_ Can’t let him get caught can’t let Roman see his face have to get out— _

Jason burst through the door to the server room. _ “Now,” _ he hissed, yanking Dick to his feet and grabbing the bag. “Wing, we have to _ move.” _

“Detonate the charges,” Dick said, already breaking into a sprint. 

“You have the info?”

“Tim will know where to find it.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Jason shouted over the sound of the alarm, nearly breathless as he ran after Dick. 

“It means they can’t stop it from getting out,” Dick shouted back. His arms pumped back and forth as he sprinted, ducking left, right, left. 

The unsaid followed them: _ But they can still stop us. _

Chest heaving, Jason pulled the detonator from his belt—flipped it on—set it off. 

A moment passed. Then, the explosion. Just enough to shake the ground and fill the air with the chemical taste of smoke. Glass shattering. Fire booming. A thought, deep inside him: _ fuck you. _

And the door was so close. 

Dick was a blur of blue. Unstoppable. Jason hardly had time to breathe before two guards were down, and another was writhing beneath the electric pulse of an escrima stick. And then they were all down, and Dick was grinning. 

“Don’t make me wait for you!” he shouted, wrapping his fingers around the door handle—turning—and they were gonna make it—

And everything cut out. 

No lights. No alarm. Nothing but the faint sound of fire and the smell of smoke in the air; Dick’s frustrated grunts as he tugged at the door. 

“I can still get it open,” he hissed. “Just—the bag, give me the bag!”

No lights. No power. No exit. Nothing but darkness, and the sound of footsteps fast approaching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops.


	26. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA the chapter Quil will love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. I think you knew this was coming. Also... is that a chapter count I see?? O.o
> 
> Extra special thanks to my Rat Pack. Love you guys. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** Roman Sionis being a creepy bastard, sensory deprivation, threats of noncon, **graphic depictions of violence**

His head was throbbing. Burning. Like someone had held a fire poker against his temple. A river of blood had dried over his cheek; he could feel the stiffness as he moved. Tried to move. His hands seemed trapped below him. The world was dark. 

_ Wrong, _he thought, but did not know why. He was running, and it was dark, and everything smelled of smoke, and then…and then… 

_ Dick, _he thought. And everything came flooding back. 

_ Explosion—running—I can still get it open—too late—drop your weapons—drop them or we fire—pain— _

Adrenaline spiked inside him. _ No, _he thought, trying to push himself to his feet. No balance. Falling. His forehead smacked against the floor, his arms twisted uselessly beneath him. 

Hands bound. Limbs heavy. Cold surface. Like tile. Blind. So black he can’t see his own body. 

_ No, _ he thought. A plea. _ No. No. No. _

In a desperate effort he writhed inside his bindings, finally driving himself onto his feet. Hard plastic bit into his skin, rough enough to tear him open. One step forward, and he met a wall. Another wall five feet to the left. And another, and another… 

Door. Locked. 

He threw his weight into the wood, rolled with the pain that curled inside him. Again and again, until his shoulder buzzed with numbness, until all he could hear was the heavy thud echoing inside his skull. Again. Again. Weights in his stomach. Heartbeat so fast he could taste it. 

“Roman!” he snarled, jiggling the handle. Pounding on the door. “Roman! Open the door! _ Open the goddamn door!” _

Nothing. 

Cursing, Jason tried again. Again. Again. So hard his teeth rattled in his skull. He kicked the door. Cursed. _ No light. Can’t see. Only the sound of my voice. _

That was when the room filled with screams. So familiar it turned his blood to ice. Jason forgot the door, forgot his bound hands. A name touched his lips, but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t say it, _ you’re never supposed to say it… _

“Wing!” he cries out. The sound rips from his throat, drowned out by the sound of Dick’s pain. Again he throws himself into the door. Again it refuses to budge. “Fuck! _ Fuck! _ Hold on! _ Wing!” _

_Don’t hurt him, _ he begged, nausea rising in his throat. _ Don’t hurt— _

The screams grew louder. Like they were coming from above him. Too much. Jason’s legs gave way and he sank to the floor, folding in half to block out the sound. Fingers in his hair. _ Don’t hurt him, _he thought again, but the thought was quickly eclipsed by nightmares. 

Dick in chains. Dick strapped to a table. Cut open. Bruised. Bloodied. Broken. Nothing left to do but scream. 

Screaming, screaming. And he couldn’t shut out the sound, and he couldn’t see, and the darkness was closing in on him, and somewhere close Roman was breaking Dick apart. 

burn him break him stab slice bleed puncture gouge snap bleed cut carve brand bleed slash rip gut drown bleed bleed bleed… 

_ Stop, _ Jason thought. He squeezed his eyes shut even though he knew it would make no difference. _ Stop it stop it stop it stop it. _

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t move. Dick was dying. Dick was _ dying. _

Somewhere in his rational mind—what was left of it—he knew it wasn’t true. The screams were too close. Too similar. Like on a loop. But they were still _ Dick’s screams, _ and they had to have come from somewhere, and they wouldn’t stop, and they _ wouldn’t stop! _

With his hands bound, Jason couldn’t cover his ears. Couldn’’t block the sound. The rough, desperate cries came in low vibrations through the walls, the floors. His mind screamed with them. Maybe his whole body was trembling. Maybe it wasn’t. There was no way to tell in all the darkness. 

And then, as abruptly as they started, the screams stopped. No more sound except Jason’s ragged sobs tearing through his throat. He curled his knees into his chest, trying to be as small as possible. As if he could slip through a crack and find a way to take Dick with him. 

By the time he finally found his breath, they had started again. 

“Stop it!” Jason screamed, his voice joining Dick’s in the darkness. “I know—_ I know you can hear me! _” 

burn him break him stab slice bleed puncture gouge snap bleed cut carve brand bleed slash rip gut drown bleed bleed bleed…

They continued. On, off, on, off, on, off. Never giving him enough time to rest. Never giving him enough time to breathe. 

For _ years. _

The last time the screams stopped, Jason’s face was sticky with tears. He didn’t move, he _ couldn’t _move, not when they would come back and he would go under again.

_ I’m so sorry, _ he thought. _ This is all my fault. _

Somewhere in the distance: a click. Without warning his eyes were on fire. 

Jason squeezed them shut at once, trying to block out the sudden inundation of light and the pain that came with it. It was _ wrong. _Where had the darkness gone? Why wouldn’t it come back? 

“Your boy is fine,” said a voice. Roman. 

A renewed fury burst inside Jason like a thunderhead. Roman. He pressed himself against the back wall of the room—a closet? a locker?—lips pulling back over his teeth as he blindly fought against a blow that did not come.

“Where is he?” Jason growled, swinging at air with bound hands. His vision had started to clear, leaving him with shapes and spots of color. “Roman, I swear to god—”

A hand caught his wrists, squeezing until the bones strained against the pressure. “Enough,” Roman hissed. Through the haze Jason could see his lip curling into a derisive expression. A challenge. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Jason blinked, trying to quell his shaking limbs. Dick’s screams still echoed inside him, rattling his ribcage, swimming through the swamp of his thoughts. _ Pain, pain, pain… _

“What did you do to him?” he forced out, yanking his hands away from Roman. A zip tie. He had been bound with zip ties. 

“Why should I tell you?” 

Jason took a shuddering breath, finally pushing himself to his feet. His muscles were seized with cramps, lines of acid running through his veins. Beyond the door, he could see the familiar halls of the penthouse. He was in a closet. A god damn _ closet. _

“Fuck you,” he hissed between his teeth. 

Roman stared at him. Everything about him buzzed with violence, from his tight posture to the heat behind his eyes. “You fucking ingrate,” he said, voice slick with venom. “After all I did for you…” 

“Where _ is _he?” 

“Where’s the data?” 

Jason said nothing. 

Roman let out a deep sigh, rubbing his temple with a gloved hand. No blood on the leather. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Ever heard the saying, ‘an eye for an eye’?”

Something dropped in his stomach. “You didn’t,” he said. “Don’t you fucking lie to me. You didn’t.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. You of all people should know that I’m a good host. Which reminds me. Did you have a good night’s sleep, _ son?” _

It was as if he had been stabbed. “Fuck you.”

Roman shook his head. “You just don’t learn, do you? Maybe another day or two will do the trick.” He smirked. “I can always harvest new screams, when you get bored.” 

_ Dick. _

“You know what I think?” Jason shot back. His voice was rough, tired, as if they were his screams that had filled the darkness. “I think you’ve lost, and you know it.”

Roman seethed. “Please. Give me a reason to tear him apart,” he said, anger building with each word. “An eye for an eye, Jason. An eye for a fucking eye.” 

“Where is he, Roman?” Jason’s eyes searched the hallway beyond the door. Nothing. No blood, no cries. 

“And what if I tell you? If you know where he is, what will you do? Get him and walk out of here? You’re _ mine, _ Jason. Both of you. And you’re not leaving until I’m finished.”

“They know we’re gone.” Almost true. “You want to turn this into a League shitshow? Let us go and get the fuck out before the feds show up.” 

“Oh, this _ will _be a League shitshow,” Roman hissed. “Or have you forgotten already?”

A conversation flickered across Jason’s memory. _ Give me their names, and you go free… _

_ He doesn’t know, _ he thought. _ He doesn’t know I know. _

“It’s not too late,” Roman continued. “We hardly touched your little boyfriend. Didn’t even take his mask off.”

“You’re lying.” 

“You can ask him. It’s not like he could have fallen asleep, in his position.”

Jason clenched his fists, shoving aside thoughts of chains, metal, blood… 

“You want a life?” Roman asked. “All I need is one _ little _ conversation. Then after I beat the shit out of both of you, I’ll let you go. You’re free to live the rest of your pathetic lives in anonymity.” He chuckled dryly. “However _ short _ they may be.” 

Despite the sickness welling inside him, Jason forced himself to laugh. _ Act like you don’t know their names too. _“If you think he’ll give up anyone, you’re fucking stupid. He won’t.” 

Roman’s face twisted in a subtle anger. “Won’t he.”

“No.”

“Not even for you?” 

_ “No.” _

A crack, and the left side of his face erupted in pain. Jason stumbled backwards, ears ringing. _ Burning, burning… _

Roman’s hand curled around the collar of his shirt, yanking him upright. “We’ll see about that,” he hissed, and struck him again. 

Bright white. Blinding. Jason’s mouth filled with the thick, coppery heat of blood. He spat; red speckles dotted Roman’s white suit. 

The man glared. “So fucking ingrateful,” he said. Another blow, this time to Jason’s stomach. The air left him in a violent burst. “Almost makes me want to rip you open right here.” 

“Fucking…try it,” Jason forced out. Blood dripped down his chin, dripped to the floor. 

“Oh, I will.” Roman smirked as two men entered the room, held Jason still. He struggled, but after all those hours in the darkness he was too shaken, too weak. “Such a shame it’s come to this, Little Wolf.”

“Let go of me!” Jason writhed and spat, struggling to gain even the slightest bit of control. Nothing. His body moved as if he were swimming through sand. “Get the fuck off!”

“Tie him up with the other one,” Roman said. “I think it’s time I talked to Nightwing about his _ intentions _for my son.”

A string of curses flew from Jason’s mouth as the men dragged him from the room. He kicked. Screamed. Hissed. _ You fucking touch him and I’ll rip you apart, I swear to god. You’re making a mistake. I’ll fucking kill you. _

Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Rough enough to bruise. 

In the living room they threw him to the floor. No time to catch himself; his face hit the marble floor with a sick _ crack. _Pain flooded the curves around his nose, his eyes. 

“Jason?” 

His heart leapt. _ Dick. _

He was strung up by his hands in the center of the room, the tips of his feet slipping over the floor, fighting for the slightest bit of traction. The left side of his face was bruised and bloodied, like someone had struck him several times in the same location. Chest and legs bare to the coolness of the room. One ankle swollen and red. But his mask was on. 

Even if Jason had time to think, he wouldn’t have known what to make of that. 

“M’fine,” he muttered, as he felt Roman’s men thread a rope around his bound hands. So tight it burned. “Are you?”

“I didn’t want to scream,” Dick took a shaky, strained breath. A large bruise stretched across his ribcage, so deep in color that Jason felt it as if it were his own. “He said he’d—I didn’t want to.”

“I know,” Jason said. 

The men yanked. His arms were ripped upright with enough force to send a shockwave up his shoulders, down his back. Higher. Harder. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to cry out as every muscle in his upper body began to scream. His feet arched toward the floor. _ Have to take the weight off his arms. _But they had strung him too high, and the ropes were chewing on his wrists, and the zip tie was cutting them open… 

“Cut off his clothes,” Roman said. Jason had not heard him enter over the rush of his pulse. “He won’t be needing them.” 

A knife slid under his shirt, slicing the fabric away. Too close. The cool metal brushed over his skin, nicking his ribs, the underside of his arms. Jason fought to keep his face unreadable even as a chill sank into his bared skin. Nothing left but his boxers and the binds around his wrists. 

“It’s not going to work,” Dick spat. “We got enough to put you away for good. You’re done.”

“Do I look done to you?” Roman asked. 

“You look like a man who knows he’s already lost.” 

_Don’t, _ Jason wanted to say. _ Don’t provoke him. He’ll hurt you. He’ll— _

Roman backhanded Dick across the face, hard enough to send his head rolling. Blood flew from his mouth, scattering like rose petals over the plush white carpet beneath them. 

“Such a shame to ruin good furniture,” Roman said, adjusting his gloves. “But it seems the rest of my home has burned away.”

Dick spat again. This time the blood landed on the seat of an armchair. “Am I supposed to be sorry for you?”

Roman’s eyes flashed with anger. “Do you even know what you could have done?” he laughed, thrusting a finger toward something Jason could not see. “Forty-five kilos of TATP. I’m lucky I’ve got something left of you to cut open.” 

“Yeah. Real lucky.” 

“Enough, Roman,” Jason said. He struggled against the binds, trying to find some position—any position—where there would be no pain. Less pain. Nothing. “If you’re going to kill us, kill us.”

Roman smirked. In a moment he was in front of Jason, tutting softly as he turned Jason’s head from side-to-side, as if examining the marks he had left. “Oh, Jason, Jason, Jason,” he said. “You know what I want.” 

Jason glanced at Dick, hoping his eyes could speak his thoughts: _ Roman doesn’t know I know. _

It worked. “You really think _ I’ll _ tell _ you _ anything?” Dick laughed. “Shit. I thought you were supposed to be smart.” 

“Quite the contrary, _ Wing,” _ Roman replied, letting go of Dick’s face. “I was hoping you wouldn’t _ tell _me anything. Where’s the fun in that?” 

_ “Fun,” _Jason hissed. 

“Well, almost fun,” Roman said, stepping across the room. He nodded at his men, who withdrew quickly. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway. Then, silence. “I would have loved to starve you. Leave you in darkness for days on end, until you’re _ begging _ for my fists, just to feel something again. _ That _would have been fun.” 

Dick’s lips curled back over his teeth. “But you don’t have the time,” he said. “They’re coming for us. For _ you. _ And there’s _ nothing _ you can do about it.” 

A laugh left Roman’s lips, sudden and cold enough to freeze Jason’s blood. “Right. I suppose we’ll have to play a different game.” He looked at Dick, cocking his head as his fingers danced over the objects littering the coffee table. “Taser or scalpel?”

Jason’s stomach dropped, but Dick’s eyes didn’t waver. “Do. Your. Worst.” 

Roman smirked. “I thought you would say that,” he said, picking up both objects. He stared at his reflection in the scalpel, turning it to catch the light from the chandelier. “I heard you were a martyr, _ Wing. _I didn’t think you were a masochist too.”

Jason hissed. “Don’t you fucking—Roman! You’re wasting your goddamn time! Fuck!” 

The man ignored him, walking slowly towards Dick. Step. Step. Step. Each one delicate, each one intentional. “Let’s see if you’re stupid, too,” he said coolly. dragging the tip of the scalpel over Dick’s chest. 

Dick didn’t flinch, not even as Roman dragged the tip over his chest, not even as a thin line of blood appeared in its wake. The scalpel climbed higher, higher, higher still. Jason’s heart was a drum in his throat. He strained against his bindings, pulling until the joints in his shoulders promised to pop out of place.

“Roman, _ don’t.” _

“I want names. Now.” 

Dick took a deep breath, looked Roman in the eyes. For just a moment, something soft flickered across his face. _ Resignation. _

“No,” he said quietly. 

Roman’s lips pulled tight, twisting into a sour expression. “Color me unsurprised,” he sighed, lowering the scalpel. “But I suppose I can settle for yours.” 

The outcry was lost on Jason’s lips. Dick’s mask was already on the floor, coming to a rest by Roman’s feet. His face was bare and open, stained by blood and sticky with spirit glue. But it was him: furrowed brow, sculpted jaw, eyes so wide and blue they could eclipse the ocean. He was unmistakably, _ painfully, _Richard Grayson. 

“What have we here?” Roman asked, lifting Dick’s chin to get a better look at him. “If it isn’t Richard Grayson. My, my. Not just a whore after all.” His thumb brushed over the bloodied curve of his cheek. The tenderness of the gesture was a knife to Jason’s gut. 

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” he snarled. 

Though his back was to Jason, it was clear Roman was rolling his eyes. “Really, Jason. Will you ever shut up?”

“I’m fine, Jay,” Dick said, more to Roman than anyone else. The resignation had left him completely; all that was left was defiance. 

Still Jason struggled. Straining to reach them. Fury and desperation warping his thoughts. _ Maybe if I break my thumbs I can slip my hands out. Maybe if I stretch I can reach Roman. Maybe I can knock him out. My legs are free. They’re on fire, but they’re free. I could do it. I could— _

_ “Jay,” _Roman echoed, shaking his head. The scalpel glinted in his hand. “Who knew daddy’s little playboy had a soft side?”

Dick glared. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Of course you’re not. I’ve heard all about you, _ Richard. _You have quite the habit of taking on things too big for you to swallow.” He laughed dryly, dragging the scalpel down Dick’s chest. “Excluding my son, of course.”

“He’s not your goddamn son,” Dick spat, grimacing as the tip of the scalpel sliced across his abdomen. Fresh blood oozed down the muscle. Slow. Thick. 

“It’s not going to work,” Jason forced out, ignoring the pain in his shoulders, his arms. The binds had worn away the skin of his wrists. Didn’t matter. Dick was all that mattered. Only five feet between them. So close. Far away. “You’re wasting your goddamn time.” 

Roman stepped away from Dick, holding the bloodied scalpel like a pen. “Richard Grayson is Nightwing,” he said casually. Like reciting a fact. “Tell me, Jason. Should I carve the symbol into his chest? Or perhaps I should give him a mask instead.”

_ “Fuck. You.” _

“Very well.” Without warning Roman turned around and started cutting the skin over Dick’s chest. _ Carving. _Dick hissed with pain as he twisted in his ropes, body jerking away from the blade. Bile rose in Jason’s throat. 

“I’m not an idiot,” Roman continued. He sliced away a ribbon of Dick’s skin, ignored the cry that followed. “I know you won’t give me anything. I can break your bones—” 

A shallow cut, to his shoulder. Jason fought against the ropes. 

“Pull out your teeth—” 

Two more. Down his thigh. Deep. 

“Drive skewers through your palms—” 

“Stop it!” Jason cried. “Fuck. Roman! Stop!”

The man drove the entire blade into Dick’s ribcage, tore it down until Dick’s screams pierced the air. “But you still won’t squeal,” he snarled, twisting the scalpel. In a single motion, he snapped the tool in half, letting the handle fall to the floor. 

A rabid emotion filled Jason’s mind, slowed his speech. _ Look what he did what he fucking did Dick is bleeding out and Roman did this to him…_

Dick’s breaths came in ragged bursts as blood dripped off his skin. The broken edge of the blade poked out from between his ribs, the carpet beneath him had stained crimson. “You’re…you’re a sick bastard,” he choked out. 

“You wound me.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Jason hissed. Didn’t matter that Dick was there. His vision had gone red as Dick’s blood—_ Dick’s blood!— _ and all he could see was Roman’s cruel gaze, and all he could taste was copper and sweat. “Gonna fucking kill you. Never gonna touch him again. Fucking _ bastard. _Fucking—” 

His words died on his tongue as an intense burn spread throughout his body. Frozen agony. Jason shuddered violently, muscles locked tight, mouth open in a silent scream. Somewhere in the distance he was aware of Roman’s voice, but he couldn’t parse the words, couldn’t do anything but wait for the pain to dissipate. 

Seizing. Seizing. Still. Jason gasped, feeling aftershocks of muscle spasms spread from his core out toward his extremities. 

“—fucking shut up,” Roman was hissing. “I’ve wasted too much time on you already.”

“Screw…you…”

The taser crackled. No time to react. Jason seized again, trying to writhe even as his body wouldn’t listen. Couldn’t keep his eyes open. Couldn’t breathe. Locked so tight. Like his body had become a cage.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. 

And then it was over. 

Drained of energy, Jason felt his head slump forward. His arms strained against the weight of his body. His legs were useless beneath him. 

“Jason?” Dick’s voice. “Jason? What did—_what did you do to him?” _

Roman’s laughter filled the space between them. Though he did not have the strength to see, Jason could hear him moving. Around. Behind. “I know you won’t give me names, _ Richard,” _Roman said. “Still, one is better than nothing. How much do you think people will pay for Nightwing’s name? How many others can they connect to yours?”

“Fucking…bastard,” Jason muttered. 

“Tsk, tsk. Such foul language, Jason. Can’t you see you’re in a fine establishment?”

Another shock rolled through his body. He grit his teeth, squeezed his fists until his fingernails drew blood. 

“M’fine,” he choked out. Slowly, he raised his head to look into Dick’s distressed expression. “He can’t…he can’t hurt me.” 

A fist slammed into his face, cracking his nose. White-hot pain. At once blood poured into his mouth, down his chin. 

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Roman growled, wiping his gloves on the breast of his suit. The dark leather left streaks of red on the white fabric. “Tell me, Richard. Should I cut him up too? Or should I break his bones first?” 

“It’s not going to work,” Dick said. His voice was tinted with a softness that Roman did not miss. 

“You keep saying that,” he laughed. There was the sound of metal scraping over glass as he picked up a different weapon. A crowbar. “I’m not trying to make anything _ work, _Richard. When I hurt you—”

A swing. A _ crack. _ Dick cried out as his ankle bent at an unnatural angle, buckling beneath the little weight it carried. 

“—it’s for my own fucking amusement.” 

Dick swore, trying to shift his weight onto his unbroken ankle. Blood ran in rivers down his skin, the exposed tissue on his torso caught the light like stained glass. But it was his gaze that hurt Jason the most. That quiet look. _ Better me than you. _

Another swing. Jason squeezed his eyes shut as the crowbar made contact with Dick’s torso. _ Worse. _Ribs cracking. Dicks strangled cry disappearing in the vaulted ceilings of the penthouse. 

“How does it feel,” Roman began, “knowing that every piece of shit in Gotham will know your name? Personally, I’d imagine it feels a lot like this.” 

This time, when he swang, he went for Dick’s face. “Don’t!” Jason shouted, pulse roaring in his ears. But he was too late. Far too late. Dick was spitting blood onto the floor as purple spread across his cheek. 

Chuckling, Roman looked over at Jason. “Don’t worry, honey,” he said. “Your turn is coming. Daddy’s got enough for both of you.”

Jason started cursing. He couldn’t help it; without the use of his limbs there was nothing for him to do but snarl. Maybe if he said the right thing, Roman would hit him instead. Maybe Dick would have a break.

A hand wrapped around his neck, squeezing until each breath was a labor. The scent of Roman’s cologne was heavy on his tongue. _ Can’t breathe, _ Jason thought, sucking down air and receiving none. _ Can’t breathe, can’t— _

_ “Enough,” _Roman hissed. He squeezed tighter, until Jason was jerking around, trying to shake him off. “If you want it so bad, you can have it.”

Finally, air. As Roman’s hand released him Jason gulped it down, ragged coughs shaking his torso. His vision was white with starbursts.

“But first, we’ve got to shut you up,” a voice said. “Can’t have you ruining the moment with that useless tongue.” 

Something wrapped around his neck. Plastic. Jason’s vision cleared in time for him to catch Dick’s anguished eyes as Roman yanked the zip tie tight. The effect was immediate: Jason instinctively tried to gasp, only to feel the slightest sliver of air falling into his lungs.

“Stop,” Dick forced out. His voice was warbled with blood; as he spoke it dropped from his lips onto his marred chest. “He can’t breathe.” 

“That’s the point, Richard.” Roman picked up the crowbar, tested the heaviness in his hands as he looked Jason over. His lips pulled into a sneer. “Fucking useless,” he hissed, and swung. 

The pain was blinding. Jason grunted, squeezing his eyes shut as if to chase away the agony. His hip was on fire. Pulsing with every quick beat of his heart. And the ache was spreading deeper, and— 

Metal struck his ribs. Cracking. He cried out, only to have his throat constrict around the sound. 

Thigh.

Chest.

Ribs again. 

Jason writhed in his bindings, trying not to scream even as the tip of the crowbar ripped through his skin and the agony renewed. _ Can’t scream, can’t—pain—let him win, because—pain—gonna get worse—pain pain pain pain pain— _

A violent yank had him lurch forward. Something in his shoulder popped. This time, Jason could not hold back his scream. The sound tore from his throat, strangled by the pressure from the ziptie. Raw and empty. 

Dick was screaming too. A different kind. His words were rushed, desperate and angry at once. Too much for Jason to make out over the sound coming from his lungs, his veins. 

And then the blows stopped. He let out a ragged gasp and slumped forward. Exhaustion rippled through him. Didn’t matter that his one good arm was bearing all his weight. Didn’t matter that blood fell from his lips like a prayer, staining the rug beneath him. Like the children’s book. _ Painting the roses red… _

“…nothing but a toy?” Roman was asking. The man was shaking—no, the _ world _ was shaking. Blurred. 

Jason tried to growl but could only work up a whimper.

“Look at you.” Smirking, Roman caressed his cheek with the tip of the crowbar. “Look what you made me do” 

Dick hissed between his teeth. “You’re a sick bastard.”

“Oh, please.” A dull smack sounded through the room, followed by a grunt from Dick. Jason flinched. “This is nothing,” Roman laughed. “Stop crying before Daddy gives you something to cry about. ” 

“He’s choking,” Dick said, voice thick with pain. 

“Damn. I suppose you’re right.” 

The crowbar drove the air from Jason’s lungs. He could feel the forked tip driving into the flesh of his back, tearing through skin and muscle. A new stream of blood poured from the wound, running hot and thick down his leg. 

“There,” Roman said. “Is that better?”

“Noth…nothing,” Jason wheezed. He spat blood onto Roman’s suit. “Try…harder.”

The man’s face twisted as he threw the crowbar to the floor. “You want it harder? Fine.” He walked away, only to return at once, carrying a pair of pliers. “Just remember that you asked for it.”

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 

_ Hurt me. Hurt me. Hurt me. _

A cry filled his ears. Not his own. Jason’s eyes flew open, dancing frantically around the room before they settled on the two figures in front of him. Roman smirked as he released his grip on the pliers and let Dick’s bloodied fingernail fall to the floor. 

“Wait—” Jason gasped for air. Everything burned. “I didn’t—”

“Always so eager to be the one who gets hurt,” Roman said casually as Dick struggled in front of him, trying to wrench his hand from Roman’s grip. “Remember all those things I said about love, Little Wolf? It’s really such a _ shame _ you didn’t listen.” 

Without warning, Roman yanked out a second fingernail, chuckling as Dick cursed and seethed in his grip. 

“Well. A shame for _ you. _I’m getting two for the price of one.”

Frantically, Jason found Dick’s eyes. His whole body was quivering with pain, jerking uselessly as the pliers held onto the third nail on his right hand. _ Hold on _ , _ Dick. It’s going to be okay. It’s going— _

In a fluid motion Roman ripped the nail from his skin. Like plucking fruit from a tree. Dick shuddered in pain, eyes filling with tears. 

Roman stepped back, as if admiring his handiwork. “So nice of you to introduce me to your pretty little boyfriend, Jason. I’m sure we’ll have a _ lovely _ time getting to know each other. Something tells me we’ll be quite _ close.” _

Jason bristled. “Let him—_ ” _

A hard yank on the zip tie. Stars flashed in his vision. 

“Shush, Jason. Daddy’s talking,” Roman cooed. “I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask Richard.”

Over Roman’s shoulder, Dick shook his head. His hairline was slick with blood. “I’m not telling you anything,” he spat.

Roman released his hold on the zip tie. “Oh, Richard, Richard, Richard. I already told you. I already have your name. I have _you. _I don’t need anything else.” He chuckled. “So what’s next? Thumb or pinkie?” 

“Screw you.” 

“Only if you ask nicely.” There was a scuffle, then a cry of pain as Roman jammed the end of the pliers into the wound on Dick’s side. “It is a shame to waste a face like yours on someone like my son.” He twisted the tool sharply to one side, drawing out another cry. “Maybe that’s why Wayne plucked you from the dirt.” 

A pained sound left Dick’s lips, splitting Jason’s heart in two. He grit his teeth—lunged forward—tried to growl—

The rope jerked him backward. He gasped in pain, feet slipping over the now-slick carpet. Just as he found his balance, something hard slammed into his temple. Stars.

“God damn it, Jason.” Roman dropped the pliers, picked up the taser. “You just don’t learn, do you,” he sneered, driving the taser into his ribs. 

_ Vision white. Arm twisting. Ribs cracking. Agony. Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Dick screaming. Roman laughing. Going… Going… _

Gone.

He came to violently, feet desperately searching for the floor to relieve the tension in his arms. Wet. His hair was wet, like Roman had thrown water over him. Still choking. Still oozing blood. An acute pain had spread over his body, settling deep within the skin like a parasite. Roman was nowhere to be seen. And Dick—

_ Dick. _

He had been split open by angry cuts. Bruises littering his torn skin. Both of his hands were slick with blood. Not moving. 

“Dick,” Jason choked out. His name was a relief. “Dick—fuck—please. _ Please.” _

Twitching, Dick slowly lifted his head to meet Jason’s eyes. A small tension left his expression. “You’re awake,” he said softly. 

“Are—” _ Sucking down air. _“—are you okay?”

Dick offered him a gentle smile. “I’ve had better days.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so—”

“Don’t.” Sharp. Like a knife. Then, softer: “It’s not your fault.” 

Jason took another deep breath, trying to fill his lungs. Never enough. The muscles of his neck strained against the zip tie. “Where’s Roman?”

Something passed over Dick’s eyes. “Taking offers.”

“For what?”

“Me.” 

Jason’s stomach twisted. He ached to step closer, to remove some of the infinite distance between them, but his muscles were all but useless. Mangled. _ I’m sorry, _ he thought. _ I’m so sorry. I love you. _

“It happens to the best of us,” Dick muttered. “Sometimes we get lucky. And sometimes—” 

“—bad people find out,” Jason finished, remembering his words despite the clouds in his head. 

Dick remained silent for a long moment, staring at the bloody carpet. Each breath was ragged, riddled with palpable discomfort. The sight sparked something deep in Jason’s chest. 

“We’re going to get out,” he said, wheezing around the force of the zip tie. “He’s not going to win. I won’t…” _ Big breath in. _“…I won’t let him win. We’re gonna get out.”

No response. Dick’s eyes seemed heavy; unfocused.

_ What did Roman do to you? _

“Dick…” Jason whispered. “Dick—Dickiebird—stay with me.” 

“M’here.” 

“We’re gonna get out.”

“Leave Gotham,” Dick muttered.

Jason’s body clenched with a different kind of pain. “Only if…only if you want to.” His vision blurred. “No one’s gonna find out who you are. We’ll be free.” 

The corners of Dick’s lips twitched into a smile. “Buy a house.”

“Sure, Dickiebird. We can do that.” Wet heat spilled from his eyes, stinging the raw skin along his jaw. “But we’ll have to get out first.” 

“Out.”

“Hold on, Dick,” Jason whispered. Not enough air to speak, not with the pressure around his throat. Not as consciousness slowly drained from both of them. “I’ll get us out…I promise… I’ll get us out.” 

_ Somehow. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, folks. It's far from over. 
> 
> :)))))


	27. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (aka the other chapter Q will like)
> 
> Please do mind the tags and warnings. This chapter has some heavy stuff. If you wish to skip to the most important part, search for "***". 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** **graphic depictions of violence,** torture, **threats of noncon,**

The water burned.

Jason thrashed violently in his captors’ arms as the liquid kept coming. Up his nose. Into his mouth. If he were able to think, he would have told himself that he wasn’t drowning, that this was only temporary. But he _ couldn’t _ think. The water was pouring over his face, and the inside of his nose was on fire, and his throat was swelling, and he was going to _ die. _

For a brief moment, nothing mattered but oxygen.

Just before he goes under, he hears a gruff voice.

“Stop.”

The pressure holding him down released as the towel was ripped from his face. Light seared his vision. Instinctively Jason tried to inhale, only to drive the residual water further into him. He coughed violently, a hoarse bark that ripped his throat again and again and again until he was vomiting water into the bathtub. His gut churned and boiled. _ Have to breathe. Have to breathe. Dying. _

Finally: air. It was thin, hindered by the zip tie still around his neck, but it was enough. 

The bathroom was filled with shadows. Jason twitched as they moved, too exhausted and injured to fight back. Terror still flickered down his spine like a shock, an acute chill that fought the burning in his lungs. _ Don’t touch me, _ he thought, as the shadows stared down at him. _ Don’t touch me. Please. _

“Not gonna resist?” one of them asked. Something nudged Jason’s limp, bound hands. The barrel of a gun. 

Jason’s stomach heaved. 

By the time he finished spitting up water, his whole body was trembling. Colored lights flashed in his eyes, obscuring everything but the dark marble walls. 

Something brushed against his side. He flinched, trying desperately to wriggle off the table they had laid him on. No strength. His dislocated shoulder screamed and did not move. 

“Should we keep going?” asked a second voice. 

_ No. Please. No. _

“The Boss isn’t back yet. You know the orders.” 

“No,” Jason forced out. “Don’t—”

The slick wet of the towel went back over his eyes, nose, mouth. A string of pleas left him, cut off by the hand forcing his head back over the edge of the table. 

He was immersed again.

Jason held his breath long as he could, almost praying for unconsciousness to take him first. _ Make it stop, _he thought, not thinking about the tightness in his chest, not thinking about his racing heart, not thinking about Roman or Dick… 

Dick.

He inhaled.

The wet cloth sealed his nose and mouth. Was he breathing in or breathing out? Panic and water flooded him. _ Drowning. _The pain was unlike anything a taser or crowbar could elicit: his whole body seized with the aching, desperate need to survive. 

Water in his lungs. Water in his stomach. His brain was a wildfire. His throat was hot and full, as if swollen shut. 

Jason tried to writhe against the hands holding him down, but it was useless. Lights flashed in the darkness behind his eyelids. A high-pitched sound echoed in his ears like the scream he could not make. 

Choking. Sobbing. Drowning drowning drowning drown—

Not drowning. 

Violent coughs racked his body as he expelled the water from his lungs. The world shook. People were talking, but he couldn’t hear them, not while riding through the aftershocks of dying. 

His skin was that of a corpse’s: cold, pallid, riddled with cuts and bruises. Every weak breath he managed brought with it a fresh pain. Jason was raw, inside and out. 

Somehow, he knew through the haze that no one was touching him. His feet were unbound, and they had not strapped him to the table. _ Fuck. _ He should be fighting. Running. Finding Dick. Putting a bullet between Roman’s eyes. Never looking back. 

He should have been doing these things. But he couldn’t. Not even if his life depended on it. 

When the world stopped spinning, he felt a familiar presence at his side. 

“My my,” Roman purred. He reached for Jason’s face and gently wiped the water from his forehead, chuckling as Jason tried to squirm. “It looks like you three had lots of fun in my absence.” 

Angry words stirred inside Jason. _ Where’s Dick? _he wanted to demand. But in the end, only a half-whimper left his lips. 

“Tell me, Jason. Did you have a good time with the boys?” 

_ “F-f-fuck y-you.” _

Roman’s expression darkened as he let go of Jason’s face. “I see. Maybe you’re just not used to it yet.” Looking to the shadows with them, he said, conversationally, “Gentlemen?”

Jason’s eyes widened. “No—can’t—”

A wet darkness descended upon him. It began again. 

Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t think. Choking. Sobbing. Drowning. _ Stop—end it already—just let me die— _

And then it was over. More choking. More heaving. Someone grabbed Jason and threw him to the smooth tile. He didn’t even feel the pain. All he could do is stay on his hands and knees, gasping and spitting out the last bit of water inside his lungs. 

_ No more. Please, no more. I can’t. _

Roman stood over him, expressionless. “Did you have a good time?” he asked again. 

A broken cough tore the inside of Jason’s mouth, leaving the taste of copper behind. Was that blood new? Or did he rip open some existing wound deep in his chest?

“Tell me, or I’ll have them do it again.”

It came out in a whisper. “Y-yes.” 

“Tell me you like it.”

“I like—” Jason squeezed his eyes shut, hating Roman, hating himself. “I like it.” 

“Do you want me to do it again?” 

_ No. _

“Yes.” 

The sharp point of a shoe met his cracked ribs, driving away what little air he had. An explosion of pain. Jason collapsed, bracing himself for a second blow. 

“Yes, _ what? _” Roman hissed.

“Yes, Sir.” 

Above him, Roman’s face had settled into a satisfied smirk. “Good boy,” he purred. “One last thing: I want to hear you say that you belong to me.”

Jason froze. Droplets of water rolled down his hairline, settling in the grooves of his lips. _ Don’t you dare, _his mind ordered, but even the strongest commands were drowned out by the thought of going back under. 

_ Fuck you fuck you fuck you— _

“I…” His face boiled. He hoped every ounce of his anger was visible in his expression, even if he was too weak, too damaged to voice it. “I belong to you.” 

At once a shadow descended upon him, yanking the zip tie to force his head up. 

“You know the problem with torture, Little Wolf?” Roman murmured, his voice hot in Jason’s ear. “People will say anything to make it stop.”

Jason swallowed the whimper that grew in his throat. He had given Roman too much already; anything else and there would be no coming back.

Roman released him, letting his body fall to the floor. “We’re done here.”

Hands wrapped beneath Jason’s arms, yanking him upright. Shoulder burning. Feet scraping uselessly over the tile. Nothing to do but let them lug him like a ragdoll through the door, down the gallery. When he coughed, water spilled from his lips. 

So cold. So _ freezing _cold. 

They dropped him on the bloodied carpet and left him there, not bothering to tie him to anything. Another humiliation, Jason figured, shivering as he struggled to push himself onto his knees. Another reminder that he was too weak, too _ pathetic _to run. 

“M’fine,” he muttered, for Dick’s sake. Because of course Dick would be worried about him, of _ course _he would. All Jason could do was offer him the small comfort of a lie they both knew to be a lie. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.” 

“I know,” Dick replied softly. 

On his hands and knees, Jason could see that his ankle was worse than it had been the day before, swollen and bruised and laced with blood. The kind of injury that hurts to look at. Just like everything else. Just like—

His heart stopped. 

Dick was not looking at him, purposefully not looking at him, as if turning his head to the side would keep Jason from seeing his face. Or not seeing.

The mask was back. Stapled to his face. 

“Can’t ruin the surprise,” Roman said, walking between them. With a single hand he grabbed Jason and pulled him to his feet. “I’m an honorable man, you see. The last thing I’d want is to give away his identity to those who have not paid for it.” 

Jason jerked in his grip, a useless endeavor. His fingers slipped uselessly over Roman’s chest. “What did—what did you do?” he hissed. 

“What do you think I did?”

“I’m fine, Jay,” Dick said. Another lie. 

_ Why are we lying? _ Jason thought, as Roman tied him up once more. _ What difference does it make? _

“Do keep comforting each other.” The man stepped back, caressed Jason’s cheek with a single gloved finger. Jason flinched, thinking of water, of dying. Smirking at his discomfort, Roman added, “It makes for a great show.”

“Leave him out of it,” Dick said suddenly. The dried blood around his mask began to crack. There was surprisingly little, despite the multiple stitches around his cheeks and temples. Almost as if there was nothing left to bleed out. 

Jason looked away, seeing for the first time the camera set up on a tripod beside them. His stomach twisted. 

_ It makes for a great show. _

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Roman, you can’t—”

Harsh laughter cut him off. “I _ can’t?” _Roman asked. “Come now, Jason. What do you think I was doing while you had your little playdate in the bathroom?” Almost gently, he takes Dick’s face in his hand, rubbing a thumb over the ribbon of dried blood along his cheek. “We needed to get some good footage before your guest appearance.”

Despite the mask, it’s clear Dick’s gaze is full of venom. “What’s your plan, Roman?” he asked, pulling away from his touch. “Selling me to the highest bidder? You really think that’s going to work, or are you even dumber than I thought?” 

_ Don’t make him angry, _Jason thought. Too late. A sharp crackle echoed through the living room, accompanied by the white flash of electricity. Dick writhed without moving, his expression hardened with pain. Then it stopped. 

Roman tossed the taser aside. “Please. We all know what a slippery little boy you are, _ Richard,” _ he said casually, straightening his collar. “Having Nightwing in one’s possession is not the same thing as _ owning _him.”

Dick’s breath came in ragged bursts. “Screw…you.” 

“My point exactly.” Roman chuckled. “Look at you. Half-dead and still fighting back. It’s almost admirable, how hard you try.” 

At that he paused, tapping his fingers on the accent table by his side. A dissonant sight: elegant glass and gold topped with bloodied tools, a handgun, orchids, knives. Hell. The rest of the room wasn’t much different, what with the crimson-speckled rug and the two of them strung up with the chandeliers. Exposed, exhausted, raw, and bloody. 

“It really is a shame,” Roman continued, fingers gracing the serrated blade of a knife, “that you had to broadcast my data. Had we more time, I really would have _ loved _ to make a game of dimming that fire in your eyes. Just for fun, of course. Break you down until you’re thanking me for every inch of skin I flay from your ruined body.” He glanced pointedly at Jason. “Until you really do belong to me.”

“I’ve never belonged to you,” Jason hissed. It came out quieter than he intended, more of a whisper than anything else. Maybe it was the zip tie, maybe it was the water still lurching inside him, maybe it was the exhaustion weighing down his head. Didn’t matter. “We’ll never belong to you.”

“That’s the point.” With a casual flick of his hand, Roman flipped a switch on the camera. A red light appeared beside the lens. “You’ll be someone else’s soon enough. Smile for the camera, darling.”

Jason glared. 

“Hmm. Close enough.”

The red light disappeared. 

“Leave him out of it,” Dick asked suddenly. He looked at Jason, looked away. “He…he doesn’t need to see this.”

An urgency rose in Jason’s throat. “See what?” he asked, looking between them. “Roman—Roman what the fuck did you do? _ What the fuck did you—” _

His words died as Roman yanked on the ziptie. Stars flashed. The skin on his neck, already rubbed raw, burned with renewed intensity. 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Roman snarled, pulling until Jason squirmed. _ Pain. Pain. Can’t breathe. Pain. _“We just had a little tête-à-tête. Just us boys. Isn’t that right, Richard?”

Dick’s voice was soft. “He’s right, Jay.”

“Good.”

When Roman let go, Jason’s head fell forward. He wheezed and coughed, hardly able to force air down his throat even without the pressure cutting it off. It was a full minute before he could see again, before each breath no longer felt like a luxury. 

“...can play the video for you, if you’d like,” Roman was saying. He no longer stood by Jason. Instead, the man lingered by the instruments, fingering each like a precious gem. “Not that it’s very enthralling, of course. I asked him questions, and he told me to fuck off. I suppose his daddy never cared enough to teach him any manners. We’ll have to change that.” 

It happened quickly. One moment there was silence. The next, Dick was screaming in pain. The sickly-sweet smell of _ burning _filled the air. A rasp of a cry fell from Jason’s lips as fear and fury swarmed him in equal measure. 

Two seconds—three—Jason splintered, watching him burn—five seconds—done. 

Dick let out a ragged sound, pained enough to cut Jason to the pound. The skin of his thigh was mottled, puckering, not quite black, but close to it. And the smell… 

Tutting softly, Roman lifted Dick’s face to meet his. “Look at you,” he purred. “Still fighting. How cute. Predictable, but cute.”

Jason found himself reforged by fury. No more room for fear. “Fucking bastard,” he hissed. 

“Not now, Jason. Daddy’s busy.” 

_ “Stop.” _

“No, I don’t think I will,” Roman mused, but he let go of Dick nonetheless. “Here is what is going to happen, boys. I’ve got a lot of buyers lined up who are _ thirsting _ for the chance to have Nightwing here _ all _to themselves. But like I said, he just won’t stop fighting.” 

Without warning he turned on the blowtorch and dragged it casually over Dick’s chest. Though Dick’s breath hitched in his throat, he made no other sound. And then, with all the casualness of a man hitting a light switch or closing a door, Roman turned it off. 

“Which puts a damper on things,” he continued, nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t you agree? Why pay for a man you could never break?”

Jason stared back at him, trying despite his exhausted mind to unravel the implications of his words. _ Slippery little boy. You’ll be someone else’s soon. Why pay for a man you could never break. _

And then it clicked. 

“You’re using me,” he said. “You’re using me to make him seem compliant.”

Roman laughed. “Make him? _ Make _ him? Oh Jason, Jason, Jason. I don’t have to _ make _him do anything. Watch this.” 

Dick inhaled sharply. His side oozed a clear, pinkish fluid that mixed with the blood already dried along his hip. “You’re sick,” he sneered. “If you think I’ll give away anything—” 

“Please._ I _ know you won’t. You’re too damn stubborn, and this never works anyway.” Roman turned to Jason, head cocked to one side. “How did I put it? Ah, yes. People will say _ anything _ to end the torture. It’s regrettably unreliable.” 

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Dick snapped.

“Not at all. _ I _ know these things, but there’s a whole army of fucking _ idiots _ out there who don’t. All they know is that they’re getting two for the price of one. And they’ll just _ love _ our little home video.” He grinned. “Here is the deal, gentlemen. Put on a good show, make my clients believe they can get all _ sorts _of information from you, and you’ll leave here in one piece. Try to resist… Well. The consequences will be quite obvious. Understand?”

Neither of them said anything.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He walked over to the camera, adjusting something unseen before the red light reappeared. Satisfied, he took his own mask in hand and slid it onto his face. “Smile, boys. It’s time for our first demonstration.”

Jason found himself tugging on the ropes. Useless. Even if his shoulder had not been dislocated, even without the cuts and bruises and broken bones and _ exhaustion, _the knot would have held. Roman never took chances. 

“Fuck you,” he muttered. 

“Always so contrary,” Roman said, picking up the pair of pliers. “Don’t make me tighten your collar, puppy.” 

Jason’s jaw tightened. But knew not to speak. Speaking would lead to pain, and that wasn’t fair to Dick. To either of them.

Pulse raging, he locked eyes with Dick just before Roman stepped between them. _ I’ll get us out, _ he thought. _ I promise. _

“Tell you what, _ Nightwing,” _ Roman purred, dragging the pliers over Dick’s marred chest. The movement was exaggerated, clearly for the camera. “You do _ exactly _as I say, or I will pull out two of Jason’s teeth. Understand?” 

Dick hesitated, looking at Jason without really looking at him. The struggle was visible enough in his trembling jaw, the quiet furrow of his brow, the tightness in his lips. Prolonging the inevitable. _ Give Roman what he wants, or let him hurt Jason, which is also what he wants? _

Jason’s heart cracked. 

“Okay,” Dick said, after a moment. 

“Very good,” Roman said, clearly smirking. “Task the first: hold up three fingers on your left hand.” 

For only a moment, Dick’s face was softened by confusion. Then the softness was gone, and Dick went back to glaring daggers as he held up three bloodied fingers. 

“Excellent. Let’s see…for your next task I would just _ love _it if I could hear you tell me what a stupid piece of shit you are.” 

“I’m…” Beneath the bloodied mask, Dick’s cheeks were aflame. “I’m a stupid piece of shit.” 

Grinning, Roman turned to the camera. “You see, ladies and gentlemen, how easy it is to tame Nightwing if you’ve got the goods. And as luck would have it, I do. Now, _ Wing. _Be a good boy and tell me that you’re daddy’s little princess.” 

A growl rose in Jason’s throat. “Stop,” he snarled, already turning toward the camera lens. “Roman’s lying. He’s _ lying. _This isn’t going to work, not in a million—”

Blinding light. And his temple was on fire, throbbing with every quick beat of his heart. Jason gasped, instinctively moving to clutch his face, only to send a fresh ache through his shoulder. The wet heat of blood dripped down his cheek. 

_ “Idiot,” _Roman hissed. “You think this is a live feed? Jesus Christ, Jason. Use your head for once in your pathetic life.”

Jason blinked, chasing away the lights in his eyes. His heartbeat pounded relentlessly in his ears, his cheeks, his tongue. _ What happened? Am I hurt? _

Roman straightened himself, eyes flashing with anger. “Now. Where were we? Oh yes. Nightwing?”

Across from Jason, Dick’s jaw was twitching. “I’m daddy’s little princess,” he said, curtly.

Something cold pressed against Jason’s cheek, dipping toward his lips. The pliers. “Like you mean it, baby boy,” Roman said. 

_ “I’m daddy’s little princess.” _

Behind his mask, Roman’s eyes glinted. “That’s right,” he cooed, pushing the metal tip of the pliers between Jason’s lips. “Now be a good little princess and stand on one foot for twenty seconds, starting…now.” 

Dick lifted his broken ankle. 

“No, the other foot.” 

Pain flashed across Dick’s face as he struggled to find solid footing. Jason let out a sound of protest, only for the acrid taste of steel and copper to fill his mouth as the pliers jabbed the inside of his cheek. He wrenched away, coughing. 

“Look at that,” Roman mused. “Trying so hard. I imagine that must hurt quite a bit. You’ve got ten seconds left, by the way.” 

Dick grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. His leg trembled. His _ everything _trembled. 

And then he fell. 

The ropes caught him, twisting his arms until he could not keep quiet. His cry was a knife between Jason’s ribs.

“I...I tried,” Dick whimpered. “Don’t hurt him. Please.” 

“Pathetic,” Roman muttered, looking into the camera. “Do you see this? How easy it is to reduce him to begging? To make him do _ anything?” _

_ “Please.” _

Roman ignored him. “Let’s see…I told you twenty seconds,” he mused, gesturing with the pliers. “And you gave me ten. If my math is correct, that means _ loverboy _ here owes me one tooth.”

Before Jason could react, a hand clamped around his jaw, squeezing until the pliers could fit between his teeth. _ No, _he thought, as Dick shouted the same. With his remaining strength he thrashed and kicked, and Dick was screaming at Roman, but it was too late, the pliers were already clamped around his molar…

Agony. Pure, white, toe-curling agony. Jason didn’t even know if he was screaming, but he must have been, because how could he not? And it would not stop, and heat was pouring down his open throat, and the pressure was building and building and—

The crack was almost a relief. 

Jason sobbed. Thick globs of blood dripped from his mouth onto his bare chest, his bruised thighs. The taste of it would have been overwhelming, had it not been accompanied by the unforgiving ache in his jaw. 

Someone was saying his name. Dick.

“Jason,” he said, words slick with urgency. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. I didn’t mean—I’m so sorry.”

Roman dropped the pliers onto the accent table along with the shattered remains of his molar. “Young love,” he mused, picking up a handgun and brushing his finger over the barrel. “Now for part two of our little demonstration. Why don’t we show our audience that it works both ways, hmm?” 

Jason spat another mouthful of blood onto the carpet. The pain was hot. No more freezing as water dried over his skin. Now the remaining drops felt like sweat. 

He spat again. Coughed. Blinked away the blurriness in his vision. 

Silence overtook the room. When he looked up, he saw that Roman was watching him. 

“Are you done?” the man asked. 

Jason glared, then spat once more. Red splattered over the front of Roman’s suit. A meaningless action, but it was worth it to see annoyance flicker over Roman’s eyes. 

“I’m done.” 

Roman didn’t spare a glance at his stained suit. “Let’s get started, then. A different game this time. I have one in mind.” Smirking at the camera, he said, “The boy isn’t entirely useless. When you get tired of playing with Nightwing, feel free to use him for all _ sorts _of things.” 

A new pain exploded in Jason’s jaw. Seconds passed before he realized Roman had an iron grip on his face. 

“Don’t worry. He won’t be able to bite once you’ve taken all his teeth.” Roman squeezed harder, digging the tips of his fingers into the aching bone. In his other hand, he pushed the cold muzzle of the gun against Jason’s lips. 

Jason’s gut churned in disgust. He glanced at Dick, briefly—_ are you okay please tell me you’re okay _—only to have his head forcibly jerked toward the camera. 

“That’s right. Do what Daddy says, and I won’t have to scoop out one of Wing’s pretty little eyes,” Roman cooed. “Understand?” 

“This isn’t about him,” Dick tried, but his words were useless. 

Roman let go of his face and cocked the gun, pressing harder. An invitation. Slowly Jason opened his mouth, let the barrel pass between his lips. The acrid taste of gunpowder mixed with the bitterness of blood. 

“Give them a good show, _ son,” _Roman hissed.

The gun slipped further into his mouth. Shame and anger boiled inside of him, so hot it made his eyes water. Or maybe that was the gunpowder. Or fear.

_ Dick. _

The blood helped, a little it. Left the metal slick, made it easier for him to take the barrel deeper. And the pain helped, too, in its own sick way. The more he hurt, the less headspace he could spare. The less he wanted to fall apart. The less he _ ached _to feel his hands around Roman’s throat. 

“Don’t forget to look at the camera, sweetheart,” Roman said. “There’s no need to be shy. It’s not like your boyfriend’s never seen you like this before.” 

_ Don’t react. That’s what he wants. Don’t react. Don’t think. Do. _

He licked a stripe along the slide, not thinking of Roman’s finger on the trigger. His blood was cold. The barrel of the gun was warm with spit and blood. Then, without warning, Roman yanked it from his mouth and struck him across the face. Hard enough to make his ears ring, but far too gentle to be understood as anything but teasing. 

Jason clenched his jaw, waiting for the ringing to subside. He could tell that Dick was looking at him. He did not look back.

Roman let out a low whistle. “Well well well. He must really like you, _ Wing.” _

“Fuck you,” Dick hissed. 

“Actually, you bring up a good point.” Roman set down the handgun—still glistening—and picked up a pair of gardening shears instead. “The thing about teeth and eyes,” he mused, “is that you run out of them eventually. It wouldn’t be fair to my clients to deprive them of that fun. It seems I’ll have to come up with a…_ different _ threat, won’t I, boys?” 

A moment passed before Jason realized what he meant. Then he exploded. 

“Touch him, and I’ll kill you,” he snarled, throat and lungs straining against the zip tie. “I’ll tear you apart. I’ll—I’ll—_ ” _

“Jason, it’s fine,” Dick said quietly. 

“It’s not! It’s _ not! _ Stop lying! Stop _ lying!” _

_ I’ll get us out. I promise I’ll get us out. Get you out. I promise I promise I promise I promised! _

Roman watched him, his eyes expressionless. “What would you do, to keep him safe?” 

“I’m not playing your game,” Jason snapped, though his words were little more than whispers. His chest heaved. _ Fuck. _ So much god damn energy wasted on an outburst. 

“Then you lose,” Roman sighed. “I must say, I underestimated you, Little Wolf. I thought you cared for him more than that.” 

“Wait.”

“There we go.”

“I”ll—” He looked at Dick, who was shaking his head. It was clear the gesture pained him, that _ everything _pained him. Jason swallowed the dryness in his throat, thinking about Roman, about the game, about how they could possibly win. 

Something flickered in the back of Jason’s mind. 

“I’ll let you do anything,” he finished, desperation pressing at his lips. His head lolled forward. Too heavy for his neck. “Please, Roman. _ Anything. _Just don’t—don’t hurt him.”

Roman’s eyes glinted. “Anything?”

“Anything.” 

Dick tried to take a step toward him. “Jason—”

“You’d let me pull the rest of your teeth?” Roman asked.

“Yes,” Jason whispered. 

“Break needles beneath your fingernails?” 

“Yes.”

“Waterboard you.”

Jason flinched, tasting blood and water. “Y-yes.” 

The metal blades of the shears lifted Jason’s chin, forcing his eyes to meet Roman’s. The man tutted softly. “Good boy,” he muttered, a knowing gleam in his eyes. The meaning was clear: _ excellent performance, Little Wolf. _ “For your final task, let’s show our guests just how easy you are to control.” 

One second the shears were on his chin. The next, they were gone. In a fluid motion Roman sliced through the ropes holding Jason up, letting him fall to a heap on the rug. Pain radiated through his knees, his arms, his core. 

A few feet away, he heard a snip, a thump. When he looked, Dick was crumpled beside him, tensing with a mixture of hurt and relief that Jason knew all too well. 

His arms were tired. So tired. Every breath tasted like blood. 

Something hard prodded his midsection. Jason tried to move, only to feel like an anchor weighing him down into the floor. 

“Jesus Christ,” he heard Roman mutter. 

There was the slide of metal over glass—the woosh of air—and the air left Jason’s lungs. His ribs lit up in agony. 

“Get up,” Roman hissed, swinging the crowbar into Jason’s back. “Get up, or your pretty little boyfriend will get it next.”

A shaky breath, and Jason managed to find traction beneath his good hand. Every ounce of exhaustion and pain pressed into him. On his hands and knees. On his knees. On his feet. He glared because they both knew the camera could not capture his face. 

“Feel better?” Roman asked.

Jason looked at his hands, trembling and worn raw by the ropes and zip tie. _ Hit him, _ screamed the voice in his head. _ Hit him, take Dick, and run. _

But he couldn’t. 

With the toe of his shoe Roman pushed Dick onto his stomach, resting the tip of the crowbar on the small of his back. “I suppose it would be more effective to have him do this part,” he said, “but seeing as Birdie here can’t walk, the task falls to you. Do you remember this place?” 

Jason paused, then nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Dick. _ Breathe. Please keep breathing. Save your energy. Please. _

“Remember the vase by the elevator?”

Jason nodded again. 

“I want you to walk over and bring it to me. Show me how trained you are.” Kneeling, Roman tugged off his gloves and gently traced the blood on Dick’s cheek. “Want to know what I’ll do if you try to run?” 

“No.”

“Tsk tsk, Jason. So incurious.” He dragged his finger lower, down Dick’s neck, the curve of his spine. The touch was like acid through Jason’s veins. “Although,” he continued, “I suppose you do know already. Do you?”

Jason swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good. You have ninety seconds. _ Go.” _

He walked. Limped. Something must have torn in his right thigh; every step resonated with an ache deep inside the muscle. And his chest, and his stomach, and his calves, and his jaw… 

As he expanded the distance between them, Jason heard Roman muttering something to Dick. _ Don’t think about that, _ he reminded himself. _ Don’t think don’t think don’t think. _He glanced around the expanse of the penthouse, letting his heart race, pretending that he had some sort of plan. 

Statue? Too heavy. Orchid? Too light. The knives were too far away, displayed in a block beside the kitchen sink. Same with their uniforms, crumpled on a heap on the dining table. Maybe the things in those crates—

_ Forty-five kilos of TATP _, Roman had said. 

A chill seeped into Jason’s skin. Too dangerous. 

He found the vase by the doorway, a tacky thing made to look expensive. It was easy to take it into his marred, bound hands. It was difficult not to look at the elevator, not to imagine himself and Dick holding each other as they fell to freedom. Maybe if he—

No. Not yet.

Roman looked up at him as he approached. The crowbar was gone; now the handgun rested at his hip. “Just in time. I was beginning to hope you wouldn’t come back.” Again he dragged a finger over Dick’s face, before looking up at the camera. “You can’t see it, but Wing is quite pretty. No doubt half the Justice League passes him around at parties.” He paused, directing his gaze toward Jason. “Quite fascinating, the _ things _he must know.”

“I did it,” Jason said quietly, bending to place the vase on the floor even as his shoulder ached. “Don’t hurt him.” 

“Drop the little act, Jason. You can stop pretending you don’t want to kill me.” 

Jason looked at the cameras, eliciting a laugh from Roman.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve gotten what I needed. And when we’re all done I’ll edit out your little tantrums. In an hour I’ll have quite the tragic _ fucking _ love story to send to my clients.” 

Dick fought and failed to push himself onto his knees. “And then what?” he asked, trying again. His limbs trembled. “They’re coming for us, Roman. And then they’ll come for you.”

_ “And then they’ll come for me. _How quaint. As if the Bat hasn’t been chasing me for years. Which reminds me…” Roman pressed his knee into Dick’s back, extracting a cry of pain. “I’ll have to make a copy of this to send to him. Just for fun.”

“You fucking—”

_ “Stop,” _Roman ordered. An ear-splitting noise, and then the shattering of glass. Jason froze in place, reeling as if the bullet had struck him and not the window. 

Cocking the gun once more, Roman turned it on Jason. “You’re going to stand there and watch. I want to see the look in your face.” 

“You said you wouldn’t hurt him,” Jason tried. His voice broke. “Roman, you said—”

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” 

Beneath him, Dick struggled. “Get off—get the fuck off of me!”

Paralyzed. Jason was paralyzed. Fear locked his muscles tight, fixed his gaze on Dick’s bare back, on Roman’s hands… 

“I gave you a chance, Little Wolf,” Roman said, wrapping his free hand around Dick’s face. “Remember that. You could have had a happy ever after, but you made me do this instead—god damn it!” 

He wrenched his hand away. Blood poured from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

“What the fuck, Richard?” he hissed, slamming Dick’s head into the floor. “You’re gonna fucking—” 

***

Jason broke free. 

Without thinking, he kicked the vase, sent it flying across the room where it shattered against a wall. And instinctively Roman looked over, and Dick’s eyes went to Jason, and Jason knew he had less than a second—

He didn’t tackle Roman. He fell into him. They tumbled to the ground—Jason growled—another gunshot shrieked in his ears—ringing—heart pounding—Roman was snarling at him, curses on his lips—_ focus on the gun, get it out of his grip— _Roman shouted again—not at him—

And then the crackle. 

Roman seized tight. One second. Two seconds. Three. Then the crackle stopped, and Roman fell back, and someone was tugging on him—

“They’re coming,” Dick said, still holding the taser in his unbound hands. By his side rested a knife and limp bindings. 

Jason looked down at Roman. Eyes flickering. Still alive.

“Jay, _ move.” _

_ Move. _

He held out his hands, let Dick cut through the ropes and zip tie. Then he grabbed the gun and stood, relying on the shock of adrenaline for the strength to pull Dick up with him. _ Go for the stairs the stairs the stairs the stairs… _

“Your uniform,” he muttered as he took on the weight of Dick’s body. No more pain. He was too far gone for that. 

“What?”

“Have to get it.”

“I don’t—” 

“Trust me” Jason pulled them toward the dining table. _ Dick—stairs—move, _he thought, repeating each word in succession until he could no longer hear their ragged breaths, the shouts closing in on them… 

Too close.

He whipped around, raised the gun, and fired two shots. Both hit their mark. Blood erupted from their shoulders, splattering on the abstract paintings on the walls. 

“Jason—”

No time to talk. Had to get Dick’s uniform. Line launcher. Jason stopped at the table, rummaging around their loose clothing until he found the launcher. 

_ Where is it where is it where— _

There. 

Heart pounding, Jason thrust it into Dick’s hands. “Now we go,” he said, already helping him deeper into the apartment. Only two more turns. Then they’d be in the electrical room, and the stairs would be right there… 

Roman’s voice chased them down. Jason could not hear his words—he did not need to—but he could feel them, like a fire in his chest. Stirring him forward.

One more turn. Ten feet. 

Roman screamed.

Eight.

Dick slipped in his grip. 

Six. 

Someone was running after them. The footsteps cut through Jason’s pulse. 

Two. 

Jason yanked the door open and all but tumbled into the electrical room. No break. Brace the door. Brace the door. Protect Dick. Dick was all that mattered. 

He scrambled up, ignoring the pain, the exhaustion, the frantic beat of his heart. The emergency alarm wailed as he grabbed the nearest object—a step ladder—and shoved it beneath the handle just as it began to turn. 

The door scraped a centimeter over the floor, then stopped. On the other side, a man was shouting. Pounding on the wood. The door moved a centimeter further. 

Before him, Dick gasped and winced as he pulled the mask from his face, staple by staple. Eight in total. Fresh blood bloomed in their place.

An ache ran through Jason’s core. “Here,” he said, pulling Dick up. This time, the action drained him. So weak. “The door isn’t going to hold.” 

“The stairs,” Dick muttered.

“C’mon.” He tugged him forward, memorizing the texture of his palms, the color of his eyes as they found the door to the stairwell. “Can’t walk. Need to use the line launcher.”

Behind them, the door scraped further open. Roman’s voice became more clear, more furious. Jason glanced at the breaker boxes beside the stairwell door, the electric lock only a foot away… 

An emptiness spread through him. 

_ You’re all that matters. _

Without saying anything else, Jason shoved open the door. Cold steel and cement waited on the other side. The weight slipped from his body as Dick climbed over the railing, clearly pained. 

_ All that matters. _

“I’ll hold onto the taser,” Jason said quietly. Dick placed it into his open hand. His fist closed around it. “Use the line launcher. It will be faster that way. When you get down, find a way to contact B.”

Something flickered across Dick’s eyes. “Wait,” he said. “Jay, you—”

“They won’t be able to follow you.”

“Don’t—”

“I love you,” Jason whispered, avoiding the swipe of Dick’s hand. Their eyes met: Dick’s blue and quivering, his own already dead. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dick said, nearly sobbing. “Don’t you—Jason! Jason, _ please!” _

_ I’ll be okay, _Jason wanted to say. But he didn’t. No more lies. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and pushed Dick over the edge of the stairwell. 

Time slowed. Dick was staring up at him, eyes and mouth wide with shock as he tumbled through open air. A second seemed to pass, maybe more, maybe less. Then there was the distinctive _ zip _of the line launcher, and his fall slowed.

Jason turned and ran. Back through the door. Slamming the door. The taser crackled in his hand, loud enough to sting. _ Breathe in, breathe out. _

He drove it into the breaker box just as the ladder crashed to the floor. 

Before everything shut down, he thought, _ I wish I kissed him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My search history is uhhhhh interesting
> 
> (if you're worried about the ending, I've added some new tags)


	28. Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter? A new chapter.
> 
> Only two more to go...
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** graphic violence, threats of non-con

Black. So dark that he couldn’t see his arms, his hands. But then again he didn’t need to. Jason knew what he would see. 

He flattened himself against the wall of the electrical room, so still that the movement of his eyes felt like a giveaway even in darkness. Against his chest the hand that held the taser throbbed with every quick beat of his heart. Or at least, it should have. It was as if Jason had been stripped of his ability to feel, to ache, to want, to cry. He was nothing but a form—and not even that, in the black. There was nothing for him to do but wait to be found. 

Roman’s screams shook the room. Not words. Nothing but raw anger cutting the darkness, forcing Jason’s heart into his throat. 

His thoughts went to Dick and a ribbon of heartache unfurled in his chest, strangling him from the inside. A pressure built behind his eyes; if he were to breathe his breaths would be erratic. Dick bleeding, Dick falling, Dick disappearing into shadow—

_ Don’t think about that, _ he told himself. _ No time. Think about something else, like… _

The gun. It had to be somewhere by his feet. But he couldn’t risk moving—not with Roman so close he could _ feel _him… 

_ “Fuck!” _Roman screamed again. A thud trailed his cry, and then another. Kicking the door, punching the door, it didn’t matter.

Jason thought he felt a person pass by his body. He stopped breathing. Pressed himself harder against the wall. Couldn’t they hear his heart over the sound of Roman’s rage? Couldn’t they smell the blood on his skin? Couldn’t they taste the salt of his tears? 

He squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference. Door. He had to get to the door. Locking them in here would buy him some time to…to… 

_ I’m going to die. _

A strange calm followed the thought. Almost a relief. Like it was the truth he had known and ignored all his life, a deliverance from the limbo of uncertainty. It would be over. All he needed to do was breathe. It wouldn’t be quick, but like all things it would end. Maybe then he would truly be free. 

And Dick would still be alive. 

Jason opened his eyes. He pictured Dick, falling, bleeding, screaming his name. And his own voice echoed in his head, clear as day over the sound of Roman’s fury: _ I’ll get us out. I promise. _ Not _ him. _ Us. 

He owed it to Dick to keep fighting. 

A voice split through the angry cries. “Sir,” it said, and Jason’s blood ran cold once more.

One foot stood between them. Twelve inches. If the man reached out, his fingers would graze Jason’s bloodied chest, and it really would be over.

The cuts on his back burned as he pressed himself tighter against the wall. He pictured the layout of the room, pictured the door in relation to himself. If he moved slowly and made no sound— 

“Sir,” the man said again. 

A final violent thud, and then the room fell into near-silence. The only noise came from Roman’s ragged breaths. 

“Open the goddamn door,” he growled. 

“Sir, the power—”

“I want every man on the exits. _ Now.” _

Jason could hear the man swallow. “Sir,” he said. “We can’t. The doors—” 

The explosion of a gunshot forced Jason’s heart into his throat, his pulse into a fury. Over the ringing in his ears he could hear the man’s body falling to the floor in front of him. A second passed, and something hot and wet pooled around his bare feet. He barely had time to register it before another gunshot had him jump inside his skin. This time the bullet seemed to ricochet, off the door, into the ceiling. 

A third gunshot. A fourth. No longer able to hear them, Jason could only feel the vibration through the walls as Roman emptied the clip into the door, and even then his thoughts drowned that out too.

_ Have to get out have to get out have to get out… _

The first thing he heard—really, truly heard—was the clatter of the empty gun against one of the electrical boxes. Roman let out a cry of frustration, and then there was nothing but the black. 

“I know you’re there,” the man said quietly. 

Jason cupped his free hand over his mouth, stifling the whimper he knew would follow. 

“Someone had to stay behind,” Roman continued. Something scraped over the opposite wall. “Tell me where you are, and I won’t flay the skin from your feet.”

_ Don’t move. Don’t breathe. _

Roman’s footsteps were slick on the bloodied floor. Six feet away. He chuckled quietly as the scraping continued, growing louder. “Come on, Jason. Do the smart thing for once in the rest of your life.” 

Fuck not moving. Slowly, Jason took a single step in the direction of the door, breaking the movement down into noiseless pieces. Heel up. Foot up. Toe down. Heel down. Take the smallest breath. Exhale.

The zip tie scraped over his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Pain radiated from every last wound on his body, from the gaping hole in his mouth down to the smallest cut. 

“I’m going to catch him,” Roman said. Closer. Four feet, maybe less. “And when I do, I’ll pour hot coals down his throat and make you watch as he burns from the inside.” 

Heel up. Foot up. Toe down. Heel down. Take the smallest breath. Exhale.

“I’ll drag him behind my car until he’s nothing but pulp.”

Jason held tight to the taser, squeezing until he thought his knuckles might pop through the skin. He could hear the scrape closing in on him, could almost feel Roman’s breath on the back of his neck. Closer, closer, like a lion in the brush, claws out and teeth bloody. _ Don’t react. Don’t make a sound. _

Heel up. Foot up. Toe down. Heel down. Take the smallest breath. Exhale.

Something clattered behind him, metal on metal. He resisted the urge to jump, to gasp. Just a little further. Maybe, if he stretched out his hand, his fingers would brush the cool metal of the door handle—

His foot came down on something hard. The ladder. In the nanosecond that followed Jason felt his stomach sink to the floor. _ Please don’t, _he begged, but the ladder did not listen. 

It rattled beneath him. 

He froze, heart seizing, pulse racing. The room fell into silence. One second. Two seconds. His lungs burned for oxygen he could not spare to give. 

“There you are,” Roman murmured.

Jason broke away. Something sharp sliced into the skin of his arm—a knife? Didn’t matter. He kept moving, nearly tripping over the ladder, catching himself on the edge of the door. Heartbeat so strong he could taste it. _ Get out. _

The door wouldn’t close. Jason dug his heels into the tile and pushed his weight into the door, not stopping even as his dislocated shoulder screamed. But Roman was pushing against him, and Jason’s feet were slick with blood, and already the adrenaline was wearing off and his strength was spilling out… 

“You never give up, do you,” Roman hissed. The door jerked open an inch further; any second now there would be enough room for Roman to slip through. “It would make you a good soldier, if you weren’t so _ fucking _useless.” 

Useless indeed. Jason couldn’t hold it. His feet slipped over the cold stone floor and with every passing second exhaustion tightened its grip on his head. Failing, failing… 

Jason thought about Dick. Then he took as deep a breath as he could, and let go. 

The door hit the wall just as he hit the floor. He threw his good arm over his head and braced himself for the impact of Roman’s body, for the blow to his ribs. There was a footstep and a heaviness tore the air from Jason’s lungs as the man tripped over his body. He couldn’t see Roman fall, but he could hear it: the thud of a body, the heated curse that followed. 

_ Get up, _ he told himself, but his limbs wouldn’t listen. _ Get up. Get up and run. _

He couldn’t move. The floor was so cold against his heated skin. Like ice. Did he have a fever already? Maybe his body would kill him before Roman could—

_ Roman. _

Jason wrenched his body to one side just before something metallic struck the stone where he once was. 

“You _ stupid _boy!” Roman snarled. A shadow sliced through the dark—the glint of silver—and a sharp pain opened along Jason’s thigh. “Do you think you can win? Do you?”

Blood everywhere. Jason tried to scramble away, gasping for breath, only to flounder on the slick surface. _ Dick, _ he thought, as the edge of the knife grazed his lower calf. It was the only thing he could think. Give Dick time to escape. Don’t let Dick get hurt. Better him than Dick. But don’t stop fighting, _ never _ stop fighting, because if their roles were reversed Jason would want Dick to do the same. 

Because Roman wants him to stop fighting. 

He growled, kicking blindly as he swallowed the agony of the movement. Forms appeared in his vision as his eyes adjusted to the darkness: a table, a wall, a body, a knife. Instinctively his good hand tightened around the taser. 

_ The taser. _

“Don’t touch me!” Jason hissed, a broken threat. The taser sparked to life in his hands, its light nearly blinding. But it was light. 

In the flickering blue he could see Roman standing over him, face smeared by blood and twisted in fury. The crackle of it burst in Jason’s ears, so loud it was almost painful. As if it would be the last thing he ever heard. 

Not the last thing. Roman laughed, a sound so cruel it froze the air around him. 

“Jesus,” he said, laughter still falling from his lips. “Look at you. A street mutt would seem less feral by comparison.” 

Jason licked his lips.Tasted blood. “Stand back.” 

“Or what? You’ll shock me? That thing hardly has any life in it.” Roman smirked as he took a step closer. The tips of his shoes were stained with blood. “Much like someone else I know.”

“I’m—still—breathing.” 

Roman scoffed. “Breath is hardly life, _son._ I have every intention to take your life and leave you breathing._”_

The light around them flickered. Growing dimmer every second. Shadows danced around them, on them. Roman’s fingers tightened around the knife. 

Jason inhaled. Planted his feet on the floor. “You’ve lost again,” he said, and flipped off the taser.

Darkness took over. This time his limbs listened when he spoke to them, roused once more by adrenaline or primal instinct. _ Survive. Live. If you die and Dick lives, he will never forgive you. _

He dodged the first flash of silver. Threw a weak fist into the shadow he took to be Roman’s face. His knuckles met soft flesh—again—though he knew it was not enough. Too weak. Too cornered. He needed to move. He needed to _disappear._

The next time he caught the flash of a blade, Jason sought out the shape of Roman’s face. Squeezed his eyes shut. Let the taser burst alive. It should be bright enough, that close. 

When he heard the man hiss with pain, Jason drove the taser into Roman’s chest—one second—two seconds—the crackle began to die—

_ Don’t use it up. _

Jason scrambled to his feet and ran. 

It was only a moment before Roman’s voice chased him down. Words, threats, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t hear them over the sound of his own ragged breaths, the splat of his bloodied feet over the floor, the second set of footsteps growing louder. 

His legs cried out in protest beneath him. Each exhale tore through his throat, filling his mouth with the taste of copper and salt. Closed cuts tore open. _ Please, _ he thought. _ Not yet. _

The lighter the hallway became. Outside Gotham was washed in night but it was still alive, glittering with lights that made their way into the penthouse. No good. He needed it dark. He needed to recover, to disappear. 

Jason turned the corner and dove behind the first piece of furniture he saw, nearly collapsing between a lounge and the crate of explosives. The impact rattled his limbs, sent him gasping for breath he couldn't afford. _ Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Don’t close your eyes or exhaustion will win. _

And yet his heartbeat was so fast he thought it might start a fire. 

In the darkness he could hear footsteps clicking over stone. Coming closer. He flattened himself against the floor, trying not to gulp down every molecule of oxygen he was offered. One tiny breath. Hold. Hold. Hold. Exhale.

The footsteps slowed. 

“Fuck,” Roman muttered.

Jason held his breath a little longer. Without the hum of lights, filters, appliances, the penthouse was stripped of noise. Surely, if he blinked, the sound would be like a hammer striking metal… 

Roman’s voice split the silence. “Come on, Jason,” he said. Somewhere near him, a door opened, closed. “Don’t be stupid.” 

The footsteps came closer. Jason begged the floor to open up and swallow him whole. 

“I suppose you think you’ve won,” Roman muttered. “Getting your _ boyfriend _ out of here. Tell me, _ son. _Do you truly believe that, or are you simply that naive?” 

His lungs began to cry out for air. 

“One: I still know his name. Richard Grayson is _ mine.” _

Jason inhaled, then wished he didn’t. Couldn’t Roman hear him? It was so sharp, so loud… 

“Two,” Roman continued. He opened another door, but did not close it. “He’s going to come back for you. I know it. You know it. I could drag you to the ends of the earth, and he would follow. Like a carrot on a string.” 

The footsteps came closer. Between the floor and the lounge Jason could see the outline of Roman’s legs in the darkness, not five feet away. Despite knowing it was all but useless, he tightened his grip on the taser, if only to give himself an anchor. There wasn’t any pain anymore, not really. All he could feel was the cool floor beneath him, his heart like a quake deep inside his chest. He smelled like blood. 

“Here is what’s going to happen, Jason. I’m going to find you. I’m going to break every bone in your body. Then, I’m going to make you watch.” He chuckled, stepping closer. Four feet. “You’ll watch me regain control of Gotham. Take back every single thing you tried to steal from me. Everything you thought you won. And then I’ll make you watch your white knight bursting in to save you from damnation. How is that for a reunion?” 

Roman took another step and his legs disappeared from view. Something clattered, and then there was silence. Jason did not dare look to see where he had gone, not even if _ not knowing _was worse. Just a few more moments. Then maybe he would be ready to run again.

“Maybe I’ll nail you to a board and make you watch me fuck him. Or maybe I’ll let my men take turns on both of you. I’m rather tired of carrying this burden all by myself.” 

Jason pictured Roman on top of Dick, the hand slipping between his legs. And then other images flashed before him: Dick burning, Dick screaming, Dick falling. Nausea rose in his throat. _ Safe, _he reminded himself, but the ailment grew worse.

Roman was right. Dick would come back. 

A step sounded in the darkness, breaking Jason from his thoughts. Every muscle in him seized tight—he held onto the air inside him—readied himself to push through the aches and run—

“Of course, I won’t kill you,” Roman mused from somewhere in the darkness. _ Closer? Further? _ “I’ll rip you both apart piece by piece, limb by limb, until you know _ exactly _why death is a mercy. You’ll lose yourself long before you're dead.” 

Another step. Further away; there was no doubt about it. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, holding on to the relieved sigh that threatened to escape. 

Another step.

Another. 

He didn’t know how long he went without breath. A minute, maybe more. He could feel the rough edges of the zip tie cutting into his throat, the cuts on his skin stinging as they made contact with the floor. 

_ A trap, _whispered the voice in his head. Roman could be lying in wait. The moment Jason ran… 

Well. There was only one way to find out. 

Jason exhaled and allowed his lungs to fill with cool, clean air. He pressed his palms against the floor, grounded his feet. _ On the count of three: one, two, three. _

He moved through the darkness. Or tried to. It was getting harder to move; each step was clumsy, hardly more than a controlled fall. _ Bedroom, _he thought, eyeing the shadows where he knew the staircase to be. 

The impact came before the pain. Jason grunted as he stumbled forward, hip ringing with pain where it had struck the sharp corner of a table. “Shit,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder for a sign of Roman, any sign at all— 

Like the flash of silver falling toward his head. 

Jason leapt forward just in time, dodging the swing of the crowbar. So close he could feel the wind in its wake. 

“God,” Roman laughed. “And here I thought this would be boring.” 

_ Fuck. _

Without thinking Jason reached out in the dark and grabbed the first thing his fingers touched. Hurled it behind him. Whatever it was, it shattered. Jason didn’t think it hit Roman. He was too weak for anything but shit aim. 

Like that mattered.

He grabbed something else, threw that too. Didn’t wait to see it shatter. _ Run. Dodge the crowbar. Run. Run. Run! _

Tipping a table over. Limping up the stairs. Blood dripping off his skin. Trailing behind his feet. Heart racing. Tripping. Stumbling. 

The top step broke his fall. His arm lit up with pain as he caught himself, organs lurching as though he were still tumbling through air. He spat blood. 

_ Don’t stop moving. _

And Roman was closing in on him, five feet, four feet, moving just slow enough to make it feel like a taunt. Matching every inch as Jason slipped over bloody wood. 

“I don’t know if I should be proud or disappointed,” he hissed, swinging the crowbar toward Jason’s torso. A near miss. The _ crack _of it striking the floor rang throughout the penthouse. 

“Stay—away—from me,” Jason forced out, scrambling back. He hoped it would be a growl. It was not. 

“Keep begging. I like that.”

“Go to hell.”

Another swing. The tip caught Jason’s calf, ripped open a couple inches of skin. He hissed in pain. 

“I wonder if your boyfriend’s already coming up those stairs,” Roman mused, sending the crowbar flying towards Jason’s head. It struck the wall beside him. Chipped plaster. “That seems like something he would do, doesn’t it? Climb thirty flights with a broken ankle?”

Twenty feet to his old room. If he could get in, lock the door… 

_ Fuck it, _Jason thought. 

With the last of his strength he jumped to his feet and bolted. Legs screaming. Lungs falling from his mouth. The sudden burst must have surprised Roman; it was a full second before he heard the man following him. Ten feet. Five. His hand curled around the door handle. God. Any second now there would be a blow to his skull. Earth-shattering pain. No more chances. No more anything. 

And then the door was open and he was tumbling inside, taser falling from his hand and skidding across the floor. His ankle twisted painfully in the joint—no time to think about it, don’t think about it—but he was already back on his feet—_close the door close the door close the door. _

He slammed it shut. Turned the lock. Exhaled. 

Something smacked into the other the other side. “Oh come on, Jason,” Roman growled, voice muffled by the door. “Are we really going to do this again?” 

Jason looked down at his ankle, then winced as Roman struck the door again. Or maybe he was wincing in pain. Yes, that was it: there was not an inch of skin that did not hum with agony and fatigue. 

Roman’s voice slipped through the door. “I’m going to give you to the count of three, son. Don’t make Daddy come in there. One…” 

Was his ankle swelling? No, that’s how it always looked… 

“Two…” 

Jason limped toward the bathroom, wishing he could float. Dried blood cracked in the crooks of his legs, his elbows. Behind him, he could hear Roman pounding on the door, and despite the tremble it did not phase him. The door would hold. For a little while, at least. 

The blows continued, deafening and incessant in the background. He ignored them, taking slow, shuddering breaths as he staggered into the bathroom. Instinctively he flipped the light on. The darkness stayed. In the mirror the outline of his body was visible against the wall of the bathroom, but that was it. He was nothing but a shadow. Fine. He didn’t want to look at himself. 

Sighing, he leaned over the counter, feeling the cold marble beneath his palms. He could feel the zip tie still biting into his skin, scratching with every movement of his adam's apple. _ Think, _ he ordered himself. Almost a plea. _ Think. Get out. Think. _

He wouldn’t be able to take Roman as he was. That much was obvious. Exhaustion was a weight on all of his limbs, his eyelids. It took all his strength not to collapse in a heap and let go. Not to mention the cuts, and the cracks, and the bones pulled from their sockets… 

_ Oh. _

Jason looked up, as if he would see his face reflected before him. He took a deep breath in—felt the pressure of the zip tie—then released it. Grabbed his injured arm. Yanked. 

Pain overtook him. He grit his teeth, panting through them. Pulled harder. 

A pop, and the pain was gone.

The gasp would have felt good. But the skin of his throat was worn raw, and still it seemed he could not fill his lungs. Good. So he had another thing to do.

Seven years he’d spent in this place. He knew where to find the hand towels, how they’d feel wrapped around his hand. For a moment he stayed that way—Roman’s screams in the background—and pictured that first morning. A clean face and a broken nose. Clothing that fit right and felt good.

_ Soft, almost slippery, grazing his skin like butterfly wings… _

Jason threw his fist into the mirror. Once, twice. Shards of grass sprinkled to the countertop. When he heard the tell-tale _ clink _of a larger one, he let go of the towel and felt for it. Slipped it in the thin space between the zip tie and his neck. Pulled.

A few seconds, and something snapped. Cool, clean air filled his lungs. 

For some time he did nothing but breathe. Eyes closed, back resting against the wall. Thinking of blue eyes and a beautiful smile, slipping away, slipping away… 

A sudden boom shook him upright.

_ Roman knives crowbar water blood pain Dick Dick Dick! _

Jason scrambled for the cupboards, pulse once again rushing in his ears. _ Think, _ he told himself. _ Think. _

Fact: He was too weak to face Roman as he was.

Fact: If he could get his hands on a weapon, it would be easier.

Fact: There was a table full of weapons in the living room. 

Fact: He could not make it down there without some sort of distraction. 

Fact: The power was bound to come back on any minute.

Fact: The moment the power came on, Roman would send men after Dick. 

Fact: Jason could not let that happen.

There was a med kit somewhere, or there used to be. For the nights when he came back from a mission and no one could bother fixing him up. He tore through the cupboards, searching, pleading—_let it be there—_until at last his fingers grazed the edge of a canvas bag. 

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay. Okay.” 

It was lighter in the bedroom. Louder too. The _ booms _travelled steadily across the space: a deafening metronome. Sixty seconds, Jason figured, stomach twisting. Sixty seconds. Maybe less. 

He emptied the bag onto the floor. The thin blue light came in from the windows, faint but just enough to let him make out the contents. Bandages. No time. Pain relievers. He threw his head back and swallowed two dry. Gauze, burn gel, cold pack, scissors—Jason kept those—ointment, gel… 

“Come on,” he murmured, turning a bottle over in his hands. Hydrogen peroxide. Not good enough.

Another bang shook Jason to the core. Something in the door cracked. _ Forty-five seconds… _

His hand closed around a bottle of rubbing alcohol. The floor shook beneath him as he limped over to the accent table, emptied out one of the stupid decorative vases, poured all but a few tablespoons of the alcohol inside. _ Thirty-five seconds. _The smell of it burned his nose. 

_ Ripping apart a pillow-case—dumping the rest of the alcohol on the edge—had to find something to set it ablaze— _

Jason could tell from the sound of cracking wood, of creaking hinges, that the door would fall any second. Surely his veins would catch fire any moment. If only he could use them to ignite the fabric… 

His eyes fell to the taser on the floor. _ Please, _ he thought, snatching it up and fumbling with the switch. _ Please have some life left. _

It did. 

Jason held the arc of blue light against the alcohol-soaked fabric. Flames burst in his hands, searing his eyes, his skin. There was a sharp crack—the door bursting open—and he could see white of Roman’s suit, could smell the smoke pouring into his skin, and his heart beat so fast he could taste it, and at the last second he thought about the explosives downstairs, forty-five kilos of TATP… 

Without another thought, he hurled the vase into the darkness. 

It wasn’t an explosion. Just the shattering of glass and the strong _ woosh _of flame. Fire spread along the wall of the room, the rug in the open hallway, swallowing air and spitting out smoke. Roman hissed—flames crawled over his shoulders, down his chest.

His cue to move.

In a heartbeat he was across the room, driving his shoulder into Roman’s gut. The man grunted as they tumbled into the hallway, fire licking their skin. No time for pain. Jason scrambled upright, ignoring the burns to drive his heel toward Roman’s neck. Too slow—Roman grabbed his ankle and yanked. Falling again. 

Around them the fire grew louder. Larger. Already it devoured the hallway carpet, surging toward the stairwell. 

Something slammed into his jaw. “Fucking _ idiot,” _ Roman snarled, striking him again, and again. White flashed in Jason’s vision. “Didn’t Daddy teach you not to play with—_fuck!” _

His face contorted with pain as the flames spread over his suit jacket. _ Now. _

Jason drove the scissors into the man’s chest. There was a grunt, and the pressure atop him lessened. Jason struck again. A kick to the jaw, to put more air between them. More smoke. His eyes watered.

_ Find a weapon grab it end it end it end it— _

It was like running through an inferno. Already the fire had started on the walls, the paintings. Where once the apartment was dark, now it was filled with an ugly orange glow that flickered in time with Jason’s pulse. And the heat… 

There was a sudden _ crack _ as his skull hit the floor of the stair landing. So fast he didn’t remember falling, or the blow. Only pain. Only the taste of blood. Only the heaviness on his chest. 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Roman growled, yanking Jason upright. His jacket was off; now all that remained was a singed dress shirt, soaked with blood. _ “Do you?” _

Spitting blood, Jason hissed, “Fuck you.”

“If that fire reaches the crate, we’re dead.” 

“Then we’re fucking dead.” 

With a roar, Roman threw his fist into Jason’s face. Once, twice, three times, until something _ crunched _and Jason could no longer see. When he breathed, the air tasted like smoke and blood. Somehow he knew to throw an arm over his face, protect him from another blow. The bone in his arm shook. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Roman snarled. “An easy death. Boom, and it’s over.” 

Like a feral cat Jason hissed and and writhed, blindly trying to claw his way out from under the other man. And then a hand found his upper arm, twisted and pulled until he could not help but scream.

“Remember what I said, Little Wolf?”

Fire fell like rain around him. Sweat mingled with blood and smoke. Behind him, the stair railing dug into his back, shuttering in an invisible wind. 

Another blow. Red sprayed from Jason’s mouth. “I made you, and I can _unmake _you,” Roman said, voice hot as the flames around them. “Your life and death belong to _me.” _

_ Think, _ Jason ordered himself. _ Think. Think. _But it was too hot, and his eyes stung, and no matter how hard he kicked and shoved Roman held on, pushing Jason’s spine into the ever-heating metal of the railing. 

A hand wrapped around his throat. Jason choked, scratching at Roman’s skin, his face. The hand tightened. Tightened. Tightened. No air. 

He thought: _ I really am going to die. _

He thought: _ I’m so sorry. _

He thought: _ Go down fighting. _

He thought: _ Down. _

With his last bit of strength Jason wrapped his good arm behind Roman’s neck, planted both feet on the floor, and pulled them both over the edge of the railing. 

There was a rush of air, and then twin thuds. A crack. Jason gasped, spine arching toward the ceiling as he rolled through the pain. Head. Legs. Back. Neck. High above, fire dashed between the drapes, hissing as it engulfed the fabric. Somewhere, something broke. An alarm shrieked.

_ I can breathe, _ Jason thought, gulping down air. _ Why did I think I couldn’t— _

Roman. 

Still wheezing, Jason pulled himself up, fighting against every nerve screaming inside him. _ Roll over and die, _ they screeched. _ Roll over and die. _

Beside him, Roman was fighting for breath of his own. He lay on his back, teeth bared, one leg resting at an unnatural angle. The fire cast harsh shadows over his face. Over everything. 

Blood dripped down Jason’s face as he limped across the floor, his injured arm nearly useless at his side. One of his ears would not stop ringing. Humming. Almost like a song. 

“God,” Roman choked out, when he saw him. “You just won’t die, will you.” 

Slowly, Jason bent over, picked up a knife off the coffee table. The blade glinted orange. 

Roman laughed, though the sound was laced with pain. “Planning on killing me, huh? I bet your pretty boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

_ Dick falling. Dick bleeding. Dick screaming. _

Jason took another step closer, fingers tightening around the knife. The fire had spread to the first floor; he could see it flickering in the corners of his vision. 

“We’re dead already,” he muttered. 

Something flickered across Roman’s face. “You think I don’t have a way to get out?” he snarled, pointing in the direction of the TATP. “When that thing blows, I’ll be far away from here.”

“Then why aren’t you running?” 

“Maybe I want to see you fail one last time.” 

“Maybe you’re lying.” 

Roman’s lip curled over his teeth. “Worthless boy,” he hissed, eyes flickering toward the blade in Jason’s hands. “You’ll never win. You lost the moment you—”

Jason lunged, dodged the instinctive strike of Roman’s heel. They collapsed together. Instinct took over, or maybe it was adrenaline: block, slash, scramble, hold hold hold. Knife slick with blood. Shaking in his hands. _ Don’t let go, don’t let go, aim for the heart— _

And then everything was still. Jason was looking down at Roman, knife poised over Roman’s chest. The man’s hands were pushing uselessly against Jason, trying to force the tip of the blade away from his body. Sweat and blood dripped from both of them. 

“Come on, _ son,” _ Roman growled, his voice tight with effort, and something else. _ Fear. _ “Is this really how you want it to end?” 

Dick wouldn’t want this. Dick would tell him not to kill Roman, that there was another way. _ When your enemies die, there’s nothing left but emptiness. No victory. No freedom. Nothing. _

Like that mattered. 

“I’m not your fucking son,” Jason spat, and drove the knife into Roman’s chest. 

The man’s eyes widened. He choked out, still pushing weakly against Jason, as if hurting him could undo the damage. But Jason didn’t move, not even as blood soaked his skin and the floor, not even as he felt the whisper of flames against the back of his neck. One second passed. Another. Roman’s lips moved, but only a trail of crimson left his mouth. No words. And then his eyes emptied, and it was over. 

Jason unraveled. He topped over, letting sticky blood pool around his limbs as he fought for oxygen. _ Maybe this is freedom, _ he thought, watching the flames devour the ceiling. Leaving behind a world where the people you love are safe. 

Behind him, he could hear the penthouse falling apart. Wood popping and hissing. Paintings falling. Fire roaring. The orange was nearly red now, growing stronger every second. 

_ I’ll get us out. I promise. _

Slowly, painfully, Jason peeled himself off the floor. He looked back at Roman’s body only once, at the hilt sticking out of his chest. Dick was wrong. The sight did not leave him empty. It made him feel free. 

He stumbled away from Roman, from the fire, holding his aching arm and spitting out blood. He walked until he found himself back in the electrical room and could walk no more. There was less smoke there, and more darkness. Jason lowered himself to the floor, curled into himself. He pressed a palm against the tile, as if he could still feel Dick’s warmth there. Maybe if he closed his eyes he would go to sleep. 

A minute passed in silence. And then the floor shook, and the last thing he heard was the sound of the world being torn apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *nervous laughter*


	29. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there was one. You can unbuckle your seat belts now, if you want. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** references to everything that came before.

Once, when he was living on the streets, Jason fell from a fire escape. Hit his head on the hard edge of asphalt. The blow knocked him unconscious and left him that way for an hour, maybe more. He didn’t dream at all during that time. When he woke up beneath a midnight sky, all he remembered was the agony, and then a rush of heavy black descending upon him. No lingering images in his head. Only a sharp pain radiating throughout his skull.

But this time, Jason dreamed about a lot of things.

He dreamed about running, except the world was slow and heavy and he couldn’t pick up speed no matter how hard he tried. Finally they gave out entirely, and he was falling toward water. When did he come to a cliff? He couldn’t remember. All he knows is that the water was warm and black, rich with oxygen, and it would be so easy to sleep… 

The two of them were sitting on a bench. Him and the Blue Boy. The space around them didn’t resemble the manor, but Jason knew that’s where they were. _ Why are you wearing your mask? _ he asked the Blue Boy, and the Blue Boy replied, _ you’re wearing a mask too. _So he was. Jason remembered that the air they’re breathing was full of smoke. He could taste it through his mask, on his skin. It was everywhere.

There was no pain. Why did Jason think he was supposed to be in pain? Everything was fine. He was lying on a bed in a motel, pleasantly warm. Maybe if he closed his eyes he would go to sleep. 

A heaviness returned to him. A slowing pulse. An ache in his skull, his limbs, his chest. Scratching in his throat. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself back to the pleasant warmth. It would not accept him. Cold seeped beneath his skin. The black deepened. Dying, dying, dead. 

Not dead. 

_ Body, _he thought, feeling each inch of himself. Fingers, feet, knees, lips, eyelids. No longer floating and fluid, but weighted and stiff. Pained.

Jason tried to move his hand. Maybe it worked. He couldn’t see beyond the thin membrane of his eyelids, the red, churning glow that greeted him no matter where he directed his eyes. His lips were dry. His tongue was dry too.

He should open his eyes. Should, but won’t. It would be better to go back to sleep, where there would be no pain, and he could start dreaming again. 

But it was too late. Something he recognized as reality was sinking into his bones, anchoring him to consciousness: the clean smells of antiseptic and glass, the taste of his tongue, the rough weave of fabric bunched around his limbs, the faintest hint of smoke. 

_ Smoke. _Why would there be smoke? 

His eyes opened slowly, in steps. First there was a sliver of light—searing—and then more, and more, until his half-lidded sight was washed in it. No shapes. Only a vast, silent white.

Maybe he really _ was _ dead. 

When he breathed, he felt cool air fall down his throat, felt his lungs expand outward toward his rib cage. Little by little the white dissipated, and dark shadows took its place. Then shapes. Then colors. He made out the swell of his legs, cloaked in teal fabric, and the vast brightness of a window. A table. A machine. There was a small green light bouncing across the screen—climbing and falling—but it didn’t make any sound. Was it supposed to make a sound? Jason couldn’t remember. 

What could he remember?

It was clear that his hand—the one he could see, anyway—had been burned. Jason stared at the pale, half-healed scar, waiting for the reason to come back to him. _ Smoke, _he remembered. 

Smoke, because of the fire. In a penthouse. Roman’s penthouse. _ Roman. _

His memories flooded back, vivid and caustic suffocating. Beside him, the small green light pulsed in time with his quickening heart. Racing mountains. Up and down and up and down. Jason couldn’t pay it any attention. It was as if his mind was trapped in a loop: _ Falling. Fire. I’m not your fucking son. Falling. Fire. I’m not your fucking son. Falling. Fire— _

Something touched his arm. He jerked instinctively, fingers twitching into fists. Or trying to. His body wouldn’t listen to him, couldn’t listen to him. Like trying to move through a thick tar. 

A faint name fell into his ears. His own. Like hearing it through a wall. _ Jsn—lk—ake—at me— _

The thing touched his arm again, squeezed gently. It was an effort to look up, to meet the eyes of the person holding him. 

Brown. White coat. Stethoscope. Jason stared at these things, assembling the connotations in his mind. White coat. Stethoscope. Bandages on his arms and legs, the silent machine, the scratchy sheets… Doctor. The word he was looking for was _ doctor. _Not a threat, but a doctor, saying things he could not hear. 

And behind the doctor, a man with a hard face. His icy blue eyes held too many secrets. 

_ B, _Jason thought. B as in Bat—no, he is wearing Bruce. That’s right. Bruce. 

Bruce Wayne. Batman. Nightwing. _ Dick. _

His heart lurched. “Dick!” he forced out. Or, he thought he did. He felt the words leave his throat—scratchy and pained—but he couldn’t hear them. Maybe it was just air. Didn’t matter. He tried again. 

_ Tell me he’s okay. Tell me he’s alive. Tell me you didn’t save me instead of him. _

No sound. His lips moved, but his tongue remained rooted to the base of his mouth. Like a fish drowning in air. The world spun. 

_ Dick, _ he tried again. _ He can’t be—please— _

Jason couldn’t breathe. Every breath came quick and shallow, hardly strong enough to pull oxygen down into his lungs. The doctor reached for him again; he jerked away. Pain exploded in his skull, his limbs. 

_ Explosion. Explosion. Dick. _

Somehow he could tell that Bruce said something to the doctor, then left quickly for the door. _ No! _ Jason tried to scream. _ Don’t leave me. Please! _

The doctor was at his side. Her lips moved—_ calm down, _she said—but Jason couldn’t hear her over the rush of his pulse. Her fingers at a bag. Water. No. Fluid. IV fluids. 

She held him down when he tried to yank the tubes from his arms. _ No, _her mouth said. Didn’t matter. Jason struggled against her grip, but fatigue took him, and he could not have torn through paper if he tried.

The doctor let go of him. 

Why would she do that? Why were the lights so bright? Why couldn’t he keep his eyes open? Where was Dick? Where was Dick? Where was—

He dreamed of blue eyes. A hand in his own. Soft lips on his forehead. Thick smoke billowing around him and crawling down his lungs. 

Jason woke again. The room was darker, this time. Beyond the window Gotham was orange and red and purple. Windows glittered on smooth walls of gray. 

_ I’m alive, _ he remembered, staring at the ceiling. His head throbbed with every slow beat of his heart. _ I’m alive, and I was scared because… because… _

Unable to complete the thought, he shut his eyes and tried to go back to the place where nothing was wrong. Where he didn’t have to remember things. Where he didn’t have to feel his aching body and the empty space around him. 

Someone said something. His name, a warbled sound, it didn’t matter. Maybe he should have been frightened, or defensive, but the thought of movement was too much to bear. He was so heavy. 

“Shssnn,” the voice said again. Familiar. Quiet. A moment passed before Jason realized he was supposed to open his eyes. 

Brown. White coat. Stethoscope.

Something cracked inside him. 

“Where’s Dick?” he asked. Didn’t ask. Whatever she had given him had weighed down his tongue, left him unable to move. 

The doctor looked toward a part of the room Jason could not see. He stretched his neck around but caught a glimpse of only machinery and tile floors. 

A voice found his ears. “Shssnn, d’you own huh my am?”

_ Do you know who I am? _

Jason looked back at the doctor, at the badge on her lapel. Shapes he recognized as letters, letters he recognized as a name. “K…Kim,” he said. 

Something passed over her eyes. “Ooh rah you—jss—king miss?”

_ Who were you just talking with? _

He shook his head. An ache spread throughout the inside of his skull, brain fighting bone. “D-don’…” 

_ Do you remember the three words I said at the start of our talk? _

Three words? His head burned. 

_ That’s okay, _ the doctor said. She moved her lips clearly as she spoke, emphasizing each muffled word. _ The first word was yellow. Does that ring a bell? _

“W—w—what…ha--hap…?” So hard to talk. Why was it so hard to talk when he knew what he wanted to say? “D…Di…?”

Doctor Kim’s lips moved slowly, deliberately. _ You were in an accident. Your ears and brain were damaged. What you’re experiencing are symptoms of mild aphasia. _

_ No, _ Jason wanted to say. _ I don’t care about myself. What happened to Dick? Where’s Dick? _

What came out was: “Nnnn…hap…”

The doctor stood, directing her gaze toward the other side of the room. She said something Jason couldn’t catch—about rest, maybe? Tests?—then turned back to him, smiling kindly. 

_ The words were tiger, yellow, and summer, _ she said. _ Why don’t you two work on a mnemonic to help you remember? I’ll be back after my rounds to check on you. _

Jason stared blankly, letting the heaviness take over again. Heaviness was easier than pain. Maybe if he fell asleep he would see…he would see… 

_ Dick falling. Dick screaming. Smoke, blood, darkness. Floor shaking. The rush of heat, a white world tearing apart. _

The world came back. Not searing, but warm—familiar, in a way. A soft weight had settled between the crook of his neck and his unwrapped shoulder. His head didn’t hurt as much anymore.

He took in a slow, deep breath, and released it just as slowly. Clean air washed through him. _ Right, _ he thought, opening his eyes to greet the familiar ceiling. _ I’m in a hospital. With Doctor Kim. Yellow, tiger, summer. _

“Shssn?”

The weight on his shoulder shifted and disappeared. Something—someone—held his hand, threaded their fingers together. Jason found himself holding tight. He didn’t know why; it simply felt like the right thing to do. Hold on and breathe and look. 

_ Blue. _

Full lips, dark hair, olive skin. He was bandaged too, covered in pale strips that crept out of his sleeves and up his neck. A fresh scar lay across his temple, two more on his forearm. One arm in a sling. A crutch rested on the wall behind him. 

“Dick?” Jason asked softly. Or, he thought he asked. He felt the words leave his throat—scratchy and pained—but he couldn’t hear them. Maybe it was just air. 

Like that mattered. 

The next thing he knew there were two hands on him, around him, embracing him. They were warm. Soft, uneven breaths warmed his cheek. Dick’s body shuddered. 

Dick. _ Dick. _

A rush of emotion took him. Fear, relief, love, sorrow, swelling like tides inside his chest. Too many to make sense of. Jason could do nothing but return the embrace, gripping the back of Dick’s shirt to keep his weakened arms from falling down. 

_ Dick, _he thought. 

_ I’m sorry, _he thought.

_ I had to do it, _he thought. 

His thoughts slowed as a fog took their place. All that was left was the warmth against his chest, the hitch in his breath, Dick’s name resonating in his core. 

_ I got you out, Dick. I got you out. Because I had to, I had to, I had to, I had to. _

He breathed deeply, pulling the familiar scent into his lungs. His fingers curled into the fabric of Dick’s shirt like hooks. 

After an eternity, Dick pulled away. He reached out, drew his thumb over the crest of Jason’s cheek. A soft gesture. Soon his hand was gone, and with it all the warmth in the room. Neither of them smiled. 

Jason’s empty hands twitched at his sides. He reached up and touched his face. Wet. He must have been crying. Still was. His chest shuddered; his breaths came in ragged bursts. 

“I—I’m… _ ss _ …” he tried, though little sound came from his mouth. Again he tried to say, _ I’m sorry, _ but the words were lost somewhere between his head and his mouth. _ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _He was supposed to be talking. Why wasn’t he talking? 

Dick’s mouth moved as if he was speaking, but the words were muddled and dim in Jason’s ears. Underwater words. Through-a-wall words. 

_ I—oh—too—self— _

A lump rose in Jason’s throat. _ I can’t hear you, _he wanted to say. But no matter how hard he tried the words would not come, and was left frozen, lips parted and eyes wet with tears. Dick kept talking through it all, jaw and eyes trembling, god he looked so sad… 

Jason tried again.

“I…” he began. “I—ike…I can…can’t. Can’t. Can’t. I can’t. He—he—hear—” 

Dick’s lips stopped moving. A moment passed before his hand found Jason’s, brought the two of them together. _ Can you hear me now? _his lips asked, though that was not what Jason heard. 

Underwater words. Through-a-wall words. 

Jason shook his head and his skull rang with pain. “Nn…nn…” He squeezed his eyes shut, tried something new. “S—so—sorry. Sorry. Plea…please…”

Hurt flashed across Dick’s eyes as he took Jason’s hand again. Matching, faded scabs circled both of their wrists. _ Did you forget again? _he asked.

Forget? No, Jason remembered. Three words from Doctor Kim: yellow, tiger, summer. Tigers are yellow and summer is too… 

Gently, Dick turned Jason’s head to face him. _ How long do you think you’ve been here? _he asked.

Jason shook his head, winced at the ache that followed.

_ Six days, _ Dick said. _ You’ve been here six days. _

A chill swept over Jason’s core. His eyes widened. “W—what?” 

It couldn’t be right—it _ couldn’t _ be—and yet the more he took in his surroundings the less his reality made sense. He was wearing a tee shirt and sweats, not a hospital gown. Through the open door he could see a toothbrush he knew to be his. The cuts and burns on his body were no longer raised and angry, but scabbed over, hardly painful enough to give him pause. 

Little by little, pieces of his broken memories slowly crawled into place. Bruce’s lips moving—_ you’re going to survive, son— _ Tim’s gentle expression, Dick’s heaving sobs as he pulled Jason into his arms. The doctor standing at his feet and saying this he understood, but didn’t. _ Traumatic… Surgery… Permanent… Recovery… _He remembered pretending to listen. He remembered Dick holding his hand. 

_ Tigers are yellow and summer is too… _

With his free hand Jason reached up, sought the bandages wrapped around his head, the shaven surface of his scalp. Traumatic brain injury. That’s what she said. Traumatic brain injury, and mild aphasia, and some kind of hearing loss. Senso-something. 

“Are…” He licked his lips, tried again. “Are…y—you…oh—okay? Okay? The f—fall—fall…” 

Dick chewed the inside of his cheek, watching him. His expression told Jason far more than words ever could: _ we’ve already had this conversation. _

_ Don’t worry about me, _ he said at last, as if his body wasn’t a study in injury. Cuts, bruises, burns, stitches, incorporeal things that he would never admit to… 

Taser. Scalpel. Crowbar. Metal. Fire. Water. _ Roman. _

Jason choked back a sob, his mind’s eye filling with Dick’s blood, Dick’s screams. “S—sorry,” he forced out. The world blurred. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Hurt. I’m sorry!” 

The word poured from his mouth like water, or blood. _ Sorry, sorry, sorry. _He couldn’t stop. Like a wire in his brain had come loose. A human glitch. 

An arm wrapped around him, pulled him into an embrace. Jason only caught a handful of Dick’s words—the _ it’s okays _ and _ don’t crys _ and _ Jason, stops _—but even if he could hear he wouldn’t have been able to listen. He grasped at the back of Dick’s shirt, gasping for breath.

_ Hanging from the ceiling can’t breathe zip ties digging into my skin… _

“Got—got us out. Out,” he choked. “I—I promised. Promised. _ Promised!” _

Dick held him tighter. Now they were both crying; spilling scalding tears over each other’s cheeks. _ I know, _ he seemed to say. _ I know. _

“Sor—sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry,” Jason whispered, burying his face in Dick’s shoulder. In what was left of his head he knew that he should stop, that he should take deep breaths until everything passed. An impossibility. He held onto Dick until his shoulder screamed, until his muscles grew weak, until he was afraid that his presence would leave one mark too many.

Jason let go, and exhaustion flooded his limbs. He wondered if he could still walk. He wondered what other truths he had forgotten. 

Dick took a shaky breath as he sat back in the chair next to the hospital bed. For a moment he said nothing, only played with the fabric of his shirt as he stared into the middle distance. Then, his eyes flickered to Jason, and the silence grew heavier. 

Utter silence. Jason could hear nothing at all, not even his own thoughts. He swallowed, feeling the last wave of emotion dissipate inside him. Then he really was empty. 

He thought: _ Dick hates me. _

He thought: _ I took his choice away from him. _

He thought: _ At least he’s alive. _

Fractured memories rippled through him, resonating in every cut, burn, bruise. _ You’re all that matters. I’m going to die. Death is a mercy. Is this really how you want it to end? _And the blood, and the blood, and it was pouring between his fingers, hot and thick and sticky, and when he breathed he could taste it on his tongue… 

His fingers grasped at the thin bedsheets, bunching them inside his fists. He shouldn’t have been feeling this way. It was over. Or at least, it was supposed to be. He was _ alive. _Dick was alive. And Roman, Roman was—

A sudden thought captured him in an icy embrace. Jason cast a furtive glance at Dick, struggling to read the lines in his face. _ Roman, _ he realized. _ You didn’t ask me about Roman. _

Maybe they thought he wouldn’t remember. Maybe there was nothing to ask. Maybe it was obvious what had happened. Maybe they had asked him already, and in his haze he told the truth, and Dick knew what he had done. 

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Another thirty seconds passed before Dick looked suddenly toward the door, shedding the faraway look on his face. Oh. The doctor. Jason hadn’t heard her come in. Of course he didn’t.

He wiped his face on his sleeve before she could see. 

Doctor Kim said something to Dick, who nodded once before glancing at Jason. _ Just woke up, _ he seemed to reply. _ No, he didn’t. Yes, I’m fine. _

A lie. Dick was lying again. 

“Shssn?” 

With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from Dick to look at the doctor. She was smiling kindly. Yes, that was right—she was always smiling kindly. 

_ Hi Jason, _ she said. _ How are you feeling? Scale from one to ten. _

He held up five fingers. Next to him, Dick’s lips pulled tight.

_ Mr. Grayson says that you had a memory lapse again. Is that true? _

A nod. Fuck, his head ached. 

The doctor scribbled something on her clipboard, then looked back at him. _ That’s okay. Do you remember more now? _

“D—don’t…know…” 

_ Are you able to recall the three words from our conversation two days ago? _

Like a dream. For a moment Jason saw himself sitting up with Dick at his side, trying things out on his tongue. _ Tigers are yellow and summer is too… _

The vision dissipated into nothing. 

“T—tiger, and y—y—low, and sum…sum…” Jason trailed off, stomach twisting. Words. He remembered words, and he remembered Roman, but he forgot _ Dick. _

_ That’s good, _ the doctor said. _ I’d like to test your motor functions now. Is that okay? _

Jason nodded again as he looked at Dick, trying to convey an apology with his eyes. _ I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry. _

Doctor Kim asked him to make shapes with his fingers. Bend his knee. Can he swing his legs over the side of the bed? Raise his good arm. Look left, right. Follow the light with his eyes. _ I would like to give you medicine now—is that okay? It will help increase blood flow to your brain, which should help your short-term memory. Great. Mr. Grayson, can you hand him his water bottle? _

“Or wing rate,” she said, after. _ You’re doing great. _“Slikely make… fill—cover…” 

Jason sat on the bed and stared at his bruised wrists, not really caring what she had to say. In the background, words droned on, muffled and unintelligible when he had no lips to read. Dick’s voice joined in after a moment. More words were exchanged. Minutes passed before he felt a hand on his own and realized he had been sitting in utter silence again. 

“N—not fine. Fine,” he muttered.

Dick cocked his head to one side. _ What? _

“You…lied t—t—to her. You…hurt.” 

_ That doesn’t matter, _Dick said. 

“S—stop. Stop lie—lying. Stop.” Jason took a shaky breath, swallowing thoughts of Roman’s hands on Dick’s body. It was over. It was _ over. _It wasn’t supposed to be worse than before. 

Dick sat back in his chair, twisting his hands over each other. Three fingernails were missing from his left hand. After a moment, he said, _ What do you want me to do? _

“T--tell me. Tell me.” 

_ Tell you what? _

A list weighed down Jason’s tongue. What happened to them. When they would be okay. What Dick knew. The truth. Everything.

He motioned to Dick’s injuries, hoping that it would be enough. 

_ Seventy-four stitches, _ Dick said. He stared at the floor while he spoke, still wringing his hands together. _ Two cracked ribs. A mix of second and third degree burns. My ankle’s broken, and I sprained my arm when you… when I fell down the stairs. They put me on some pain relievers, but they don’t do much. I don’t take them. I’m okay, Jason. Really. _

As soon as Dick was finished speaking, Jason squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the guilt that welled inside him. It didn’t work. “M—mad?” he asked. “After I…I pushed…?” 

Dick flinched as if he had been hit. _ I… It was like watching you die. And I couldn’t do anything but replay the moment in my head, over and over again, because I thought it was the last time I would ever see you. _ He paused, chewing his lower lip. He didn’t look at Jason. _ And I—I _ was _ angry. Furious. But I didn’t know if I was mad at you, or mad at myself for not stopping you. _

“Dick…” 

_ I wasn’t even the one to call B, _ Dick said, his chest shuddering with every breath. _ The one thing I could have done to help, and I couldn’t do it. If Tim hadn’t started tracking us after I missed the check-in… _

He didn’t continue. Seconds passed, and he merely sat shock-still, staring at the floor. Angry with himself, Jason realized. It wasn’t about Jason, and it wasn’t about Roman. It was about _ him. _

Somehow, that was worse. 

“Dick,” Jason said again, or thought he did. “D—don’t.”

_ Bruce found you in the rubble. He brought you here. The end. _

It was clear from his expression that Dick had been speaking harshly, maybe even violently. His jaw quivered; his hands tightened into fist. There was a word for what he was. But Jason couldn’t remember it. Distant? No, that wasn’t right. Sullen? Helpless? Lonely? 

Jason grit his teeth. Fuck his stupid memory. 

“Al—alive,” he forced out, leaning forward to take Dick’s hand in his own. “Alive. I’m—and you’re… you’re… Fuck.”

Dick looked at him. His hand tensed, but he didn’t pull away. _ You don’t remember what they told you, do you. _

“Re…?” 

_ The blast cut open your brain, Jason. Contusions, edemas, all that. You’re lucky you’re not on life support. And maybe you’ll be able to talk again, but— _

He cut himself off, letting out a swear Jason couldn’t make out. 

_ Sensorineural, _ he remembered. _ They call it sensorineural hearing loss. _

“I’m…” Jason swallowed, tried again. “I w—won’t hear ag--again. Again.”

Dick wiped his eyes on his sleeve. _ God, Jay. I’m so sorry. Maybe if I had gotten a hold of Bruce— _

“Stop.”

It didn’t work. Dick kept talking, saying things Jason couldn’t hear but understood anyway. The palm of his hand became clammy and hot, slick as if covered in blood once more… 

_ It’s not your fault, _ Jason wanted to say. _ If you want to blame someone, blame Roman. He’s the bastard that put all of this in motion. And now he’s dead, and he can’t hurt you or me or anyone else ever again… _

But his mouth was useless. The best he could do was, “Not your…f—fault. Fault. _ Fault.” _

Dick raised his head once more, squeezing Jason’s hand. _ You should…you should get some sleep, _ he said. _ You’re probably tired. The meds always make you tired. _

“I’m…not…”

_ I’ll be right here. I won’t leave you again. _

Jason studied Dick’s face: his dry, parted lips, his glassy eyes, the unhappy curve of his brow. Perhaps they mirrored each other in this way. Perhaps they mirrored each other in many ways. 

“Wha—what if I…f—f—forget…?” he asked, the pain of each word heavy on his tongue.

Dick shrugged. The resignation of the gesture offered Jason little comfort. How many times had it happened already? 

“Will…you…” Jason frowned, unable to complete the sentence. Instead he pulled himself to one side of the bed—_ fuck _, his head—and left an empty space at his side. Hopefully Dick would understand. 

He did. 

Jason didn’t hear Dick lie down next to him, but he felt it. The shifting balance of the mattress, a leg pressed against his own, the sudden heat where there once was none. A tight fit that could be tighter. He moved to wrap his arms around Dick, and waves of pain broke across his shoulder, his core. Right. He should be sleeping on his back anyway, with his head propped up. 

Jason’s fingers sought any morsel of skin, as if to anchor himself, his memory, to Dick. No more words. No more Roman. Just Dick. 

Closing his eyes, he let the heaviness seep back into his body. Breathe in, breathe out. _ Tigers are yellow and summer is too… _

He wondered what that meant. 

***

Two days passed. Or was it three? Hard to tell. Doctors told him it was normal for patients to sleep and sleep and _ sleep _after brain surgery. It was normal for him to feel dizzy. It was normal for him to cry for no reason. It was normal for him to space out. It was normal for him to forget. 

But Jason didn’t forget. The big things, at least. Only the smaller things slipped his mind: where he left off reading, which hand sign meant _ pain _ and which meant _ ready, _ the time he had last spoken to the neurologist, the time he had last eaten, the names of the things he took to get better. Whatever. He didn’t care about _ phenytoin _ or _ dexamethasone _ or _ fentanyl. _What mattered most was holding on to Dick, making sure he didn’t have to carry the burden of Jason’s memory. 

At the end of the second—third?—day, the doctor told him he was cleared to go home. 

_ No strenuous activity, _ Doctor Kim said. _ Short walks are okay as long as you are not pushing yourself. And don’t hesitate to call me if you experience any severe headaches, seizing, or sudden amnesia. _

Jason flipped through the discharge papers, looking at the information they had likely told him and he had certainly forgotten. Second-degree burns to his hands and ribcage. Broken nose. Bruised windpipe. Lacerations to his neck, wrists, arms, legs. Broken first molar. Cerebral edema. Cerebral contusions. Damage to the inner ears… 

He stopped reading. The doctor was still talking anyway, and he couldn’t hear her without looking at her lips. 

_ —can set you up with a physical therapist— _

Nevermind_. _He didn’t want to hear it anyway. Instead he pretended to be interested in the physical exercises allowed to him during his recovery period, and found himself lost in the maze of the paragraphs. 

_A safe and effective exercise program can play an important role in the rehabilitation process following a brain injury._ _A safe and effective exercise program—_No, he read that already. He tried again. _Choose_ _low-impact activities such as walking, cycling or water exercises,_ _which involve large muscles groups_ _and_ _a safe and effective exercise program can play an important role. Following a brain injury, individuals who exercise involve large muscle gruops adn paly an improtatn relo… _

Jason grit his teeth in frustration and let the papers fall to his lap. He picked at his scabbing wrists, following the folds in his shirt as they criss-crossed his belly. Left. Right. Loop. Left. Right. Loop. 

A hand touched his arm. “Shssn?” Dick asked. 

When Jason looked up, he saw that the hospital was gone. No white walls, no blinding lights, no doctors, no sterile smells. The walls around him were an elegant wood, illuminated by soft yellow lamps that didn’t burn his eyes. He sat on the foot of a bed, inhaling mint and lavender. A lukewarm cup of tea rested between his palms. 

The manor. He must have spaced out again. 

Across from him, a small television displayed the news. Politicians, protests, new developments in Gotham. An image of the penthouse passed across the screen, footage clearly taken by a helicopter. Smoke and ruins. 

_ Recent updates on last week’s explosion, _ the anchorman was saying. _ According to investigators, the cause of the explosion has been identified as high amounts of acetone peroxide. Authorities suspect that Roman Sionis, long thought to have ties to the notorious Black Mask— _

The television shut off. Nausea rose in Jason’s throat. 

_ I asked if you wanted to lie down, _ Dick said. He leaned against the wall, keeping his weight off his broken ankle. The boot looked like it weighed him down into the floorboards. _ You look a little tired. _

Jason shrugged. [Not tired]_ , _he signed. 

Dick looked at the cup in his hands. _ Alfred can get you a new cup of tea, if you’d like. _

“I’m… f—fine.” As if to prove his point, he took a sip of the lukewarm liquid, let it pool around his tongue. Vaguely, he remembered the taste of it when it was hot, the feel of steam billowing around his cheeks. His eyes flickered to the gothic windows across from him. The sky was orange as flame. 

_ Fire licking his skin, air thick with smoke and blood… _

There must have been something on his face, because the next thing he knew Dick was sitting next to him, taking the cup from his hands. _ He’s gonna want to talk to you, _ he said. _ About what happened. _

[I don’t understand.]

Dick sighed deeply. _ Bruce. He didn’t want to talk to you in the hospital, in case you said something that… you know. _

Jason knew.

_ He told the doctors that you’d been beaten by a rogue. _ Dick let out a silent laugh. _ Guess the best lies are closest to the truth. _

The memory of Roman’s blood twisted Jason’s stomach into a knot. He stared at the shadows in the room, feeling the weight of the knife in his hands, the searing heat that wet his skin. Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t. 

A larger shadow joined the others, lingering in the doorway. Bruce. 

He wore a stern face, though his eyes were soft. The longer Jason looked into them, the more fear left pin-pricks down his arms.

_ Jason, _ Bruce said. _ How are you feeling? _

[I’m fine.]

The man said something to Dick. An order, probably, or a question disguised as one. Jason didn’t catch it, but it was obvious what it was. 

Dick looked at Jason, then seemed to take a deep breath before pushing himself to his feet. _ I need to change some bandages, _ he said, squeezing Jason’s hand to make up for the obvious lie. _ Be back soon. _

Jason nodded. In just a few seconds, he and Bruce were alone. 

His fingers curled around the bedspread. 

_ You remember what happened, _ Bruce said. _ Don’t you. _

It wasn’t a question, but Jason answered anyway. “Y—yes.” 

_ Dick said that you stayed behind to ensure his escape. _

“H--had to. He want—want--wanted—” 

_ Names, yes, _ Bruce finished. He took a step closer to Jason, shoving his hands in his pockets. _ I know. I’ve heard enough to know that you didn’t give him any. _

Jason shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on Bruce as he sat down in the chair. The man sighed deeply. 

_ Will you tell me what happened? _ he asked. _ You forced a black out. Then what? _

“I…” Jason licked his lips, searching for the words to use. What he came up with was this: 

[Hide] [Fight] [Run] [D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T] [Fire][Run] [T-A-T-P] [Explode] 

The lie came easily. After all, the best lies were the ones that are mostly true.That was how it all began, anyway: Jason, the Batman, and a truthful lie. Might as well end the same. 

Jason’s hands fell, and Bruce’s lips pulled tight. 

_ They’ve identified the body of Roman Sionis, _he said. 

A moment passed before Jason realized this was supposed to be news to him. “O--oh,” he replied. “Did...did…” 

_ It’s likely that the explosion killed him. _ Bruce’s eyes glinted almost silver in the lamplight. _ I was hoping you could confirm that for me. _

What was one more lie, in the scheme of things? 

[Hurt], Jason signed. [R-O-M-A-N] [Run] [I don’t know]

For a second, Bruce said nothing. Then he nodded slowly and stood, looking down at Jason with an expression he couldn’t understand. _ With the information Dick sent, we’ll be able to take apart his remaining resources, _ he said. _ No one can pick up where he left off. _

“G—good.” 

_ You should get some sleep. You’ve been through so much. _

Jason nodded, feeling cool air gather around his skin. Sleep did call to him, if only as an escape for the residue of Roman’s influence. Not everything had died with him. 

“Shssn?” 

He had lost himself again. “Yeah?”

_ You saved my son, _ Bruce said. _ I won’t forget that. _

Jason didn’t know how to reply. Perhaps that didn’t matter: Bruce was already gone, and he had no reason to stay awake anymore. Well. No reason but one. 

It only felt like a few minutes before Dick came back, but it could have been hours. He carried with him a glass of water and a small smile, both of which he offered to Jason when their eyes locked. 

_ What did he say? _he asked. 

Jason shrugged. “G—guess. Guess.” 

_ You’re right. It’s obvious. _ Dick fished a small bottle from his pocket and twisted it open, dumping a small capsule into his hand. _ May I? _

Jason handed him the water and watched him wash down the antibiotic. [You hurt]? he asked. 

[A little. You?]

[Tired.] 

Dick nodded, sitting down on the bed next to him. He took Jason’s hand in his own, ran his thumb over the swell of his knuckles. Something about his posture seemed heavy, as if an unseen weight threatened to drag him under. His jaw tensed. 

When the question came, it wasn’t a question at all. 

_ You killed Roman, didn’t you, _Dick said. 

Jason stiffened. Instinctively he opened his mouth to reply, but even his broken words shied from his tongue. There was nothing to say. No excuses left. 

_ Don’t explain, _ Dick continued, still holding Jason’s hand. _ I don’t want to hear it. I just… It’s not what matters. Not now. If he were still alive… _

He stopped suddenly, letting the silence fill in the blanks. Across the room, orange light crept over the rug, stretching for their feet. Jason watched it grow and waited for Dick to let go of him. He did not. Ever so slowly, the warmth returned to his body. 

[I love you], Jason signed. 

Dick reflected the sign back at him. It seemed to Jason to be the truth.

Gently, he leaned into Dick, just to feel the heat of their shoulders pressed together. He breathed in cool air, feeling his lungs expand to their fullest. In the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of birds crossing the sunset. _ Swallows migrate in October, _he remembered. They fly south to warm weather, where they’ll wait out the stormy, wintry months and return when the world is anew. No matter what happened, Jason knew they would come back. 

Until then, he could do nothing but live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands*


End file.
